


Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

by delusion_al



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acxa & Keith (Voltron) are Siblings, Allura/Lance (one-sided), Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Coming of Age, Crossdressing, Gen, Minor Matt Holt/Shiro, Video Game: Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-05-20 13:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusion_al/pseuds/delusion_al
Summary: The year is 1984. Matthew Holt has been missing for a year, having disappeared after his expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for endangering the lives of fellow students. Whilst Shiro is eager to forget and move on, new student Pidge Gunderson seems intent on uprooting the past and sticking his nose in other people's business. Allura and Lotor are Quidditch rivals, Keith and Acxa have family issues, Lance needs to get a grip, and Hunk just wants to pass Third Year without too much fuss.Inspired by Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery.





	1. Incipere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing probably the most self-indulgent fic I have ever written because I am in love with both Voltron and Harry Potter. The plot is based very loosely on the storyline of Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery. There will be cameo appearances of characters from the Harry Potter series and the game, but they're not all that important compared to our Paladins.  
> Romantic pairings will become more prevalent later on when they're all older. I didn't want to clog up the tags until then because teenage romance is fickle.

“No.”

“But –”

“ _No_ , Katie. We’ve already discussed this.”

The finality of her father’s voice rendered her tongue useless in her mouth. There was a certain authority there, an authority that only very rarely reared its head in this household; an authority that even Katie, with all her stubbornness, felt she could not challenge. Her grip on the letter she was holding tightened. Its presence was all she needed to strengthen her resolve.

“I never agreed to anything,” she retorted, and her mother sighed.

“This isn’t something for you to decide, sweetie. You’ll still learn everything you need to know at home with us, alright? It’s…better this way. Safer this way.”

Samuel and Colleen Holt were undoubtedly the two most intelligent and talented wizards of their generation, a cosmically infused power-couple of pure genius, and Katie had no doubts concerning the competency of their tutorage or her ability to understand them. If the trophies, certificates, and ribbons that cluttered up the dining room were anything to go by, she knew that lack of academic progress was the least of her worries when it came to home-schooling.

But, like any child faced with denial they deemed unjust, Katie fought against the ease of acceptance. The true test of first-rate intelligence, she thought, was the power to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and retain the ability to function. She could see that things were pointless, and yet her determination was not to be diminished.

“It’s not _fair,_ ” she whined. “Just because Matt got expelled doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be allowed to go to Hogwarts!”

Old Gunther whimpered in his dog bed. It seemed that Matt’s very name darkened the room like a plague. The once bright holiday morning, perforated only by a waxy, yellow envelope addressed to _Ms. Katherine Holt_ popping out of the toaster, had suddenly become gloomy and sullen. Katie’s pyjamas were terribly thin and offered little warmth against the unexpected chill in the air. She would have regretted her word choice had she not been so adamant in her accusation.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew that her brother’s mysterious disappearance linked directly to the Holt family’s rise to infamy in the media and her parents’ unanimous decision to relocate to the Muggle city of Newcastle to escape nosy reporters. Katie didn’t read the Daily Prophet, but she’d seen the headlines framing Matt’s Year Twelve school photo on the front cover. As much as she resented it, she knew there was a method to the madness, a reason behind why she was forbidden to attend Hogwarts.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

It was the same excuse they’d been using for the past few months. Katie bristled.

“I want to understand _now!_ Stop hiding things from me!”

Samuel was a small man, yet what he lacked in stature, he made up for in the militancy of someone who had lived through a war. Eyes smouldering like two chunks of amber, he rose steadily, the palms of his hands planted firmly on the table. His coffee quivered in its mug, threatening to overspill onto the slice of cake on his plate. He was a mirror image of his daughter, both of them rosy and bold in the morning light in spite of their sleepwear.

“You will not take that tone with your mother. Go to your room.”

Katie hesitated, her shoulders slumping. “What?”

“Go to your room. Don’t make me say it again.”

“I –”

“Now, Katie.”

It was Gunther’s hesitant nosing at her knuckles that disturbed her from her stupor. She found herself utterly humiliated by the wetness of her cheeks, the quivering of her lip and, worst of all, the heavy disappointment in the crease of her father’s brow.

“This,” she mumbled, her voice wavering, “is the worst birthday ever."

It took all her composure not to hurl the letter at the floor before she swiftly retreated up the stairs, where not even Gunther, all love and dog hair and drool, could follow her. She tried not to think too hard about the fact that there were only two other doors leading off the landing – master bedroom and bathroom – where she felt there should have been three.

Katie’s bedroom offered little consolation. It felt too alien – too _Muggle_ – and only reminded her of all the knick-knacks she’d left behind at the old family home. The desk window showed an unfamiliar, urban skyline, so far removed from the spring forests she had been raised in that it only made her tears stream faster than before.

She vaguely remembered some philosophical quote that Matt had scrawled to her in a letter, something about the Greek amalgamation for nostalgia, and wiped at her nose with the back of her sleeve. It had soared right over her head at the time, far too difficult for her brain to comprehend, but she found herself drawn to what he’d said – “blah blah blah, something about belonging.” There was a drawer at her desk stuffed to the brim with all the letters he’d written home, trinkets from his past. Now seemed like a better time than ever the draw on their comforts.

Every fibre of Matt’s being, the entirety of his soul, character, and _goodness_ , had been woven into his handwritten words. It was a wonder how anyone could dare accuse him of immorality. He positively oozed love – love for his friends, love for his family, love for Hogwarts. Katie marvelled at how she could possibly feel so homesick for a place she had never known. _And never would know._ It was as though time were passing like a hand waving from a train she wanted to be on.

_`The Greek word for return is ‘nostos.’ ‘Algos’ means suffering. So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.`_

A soft knock at the door distracted her. Colleen’s voice filtered through the wood, mellow and contrite.

“Katie? You didn’t finish your cake. I’ve left a slice outside your door.” A pause, followed by a long release of breath. “We miss him too, sweetie. Please, try to understand that we want to protect you. It’s for your own good.”

Whether her mother wanted her to respond or not Katie couldn’t tell, but she didn’t miss the way her presence lingered longer than necessary, the quiet murmur of “happy birthday,” or how the creak of the stairs signalling her retreat seemed slow and hesitant.

Katie only reached for her Hogwarts letter once she was sure the first floor was devoid of any life besides herself. 

 

`HOGWARTS SCHOOL `_`of`_` WITCHCRAFT `_`and`_` WIZARDRY`  
`Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore`  
_`(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,`  
` Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)`_

`3rd April 1984`

`Dear Ms. Katherine Holt,`  
`We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.`  
`Term begins on 3rd September. The Hogwarts Express departs from Platform 9¾, King’s Cross Station, London on 1st September at 11:00.`  
`Yours sincerely,`  
`Minerva McGonagall`  
`Deputy Headmistress`

If her parents were unwilling to send her then perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin Square and its numerous intersections would have been uncharacteristically busy for a Saturday morning had it not been the first day of term. Diagon Alley was absolutely heaving with witches and wizards conducting last-minute shopping – namely those who lived far from England’s south-east and had resorted to buying their supplies the morning of the Hogwarts Express’s departure to save themselves the trouble (and expense) of making two trips in London in the annum.

There were all sorts clogging up the street; house-elves lost beneath garments, suitcases, and bookbags, grumpy goblins hobbling around and smoking various fragrant pipes in the immediate vicinity of Gringotts, even a few pixies here and there pulling pranks on unsuspecting prospective students. Hunk wouldn’t have had anything to do with it if it weren’t for Lance’s poor planning.

“Seriously, you’ve spent the entire summer with me, _here_ , in London, and you only just now remembered that you haven’t got one of the core books for this term?” he moaned for the umpteenth time that morning.

Lance, who was clearly more intent on frowning at the papercuts freshly slashed across his left hand, sighed heavily. “Aye, I know. Now shut up and help me look for a bookstore. You’re meant to be good at finding things, right?”

"And you're meant to be clever," he breathed tetchily but found himself scouring the street-signs regardless. He was hyper-aware that his Hawaiian shirt looked misplaced in the wake of the kooky, loose-fitting garbs of magical folk, partly from the fact that it screamed “Muggle-born” and partly due to the weather being less than tropical. Lance also stuck out like a sore thumb – he had _headphones_ around his _neck,_ for Christ’s sake. “I don’t know why you insisted on buying a Walkman.”

Lance shrugged, grinning. “How else am I going to get my Gloria Estefan fix?”

“Not at all considering that thing won’t work for most of the year?”

“It’s for next summer, then.” He started singing. “You see, I got this fever that I can’t control. Music makes me move my body, makes me move my soul –”

Hunk punched his shoulder before he could start dancing. The last thing he wanted was to attract any more unnecessary attention. Lance glared at him, but at least he had shut up.

It was only when they turned the corner on Vertick Alley that they stumbled across a second-hand bookshop with a tattered copy of Edwardus Lima’s _The Monster Book of Monsters,_ at which Lance wrinkled his nose. After some prodding, he begrudgingly parted with three Sickles and eleven Knuts.

“I can’t _believe_ that Rod Stewart-looking arsehole pried the last one right from my fingers!” Lance seethed, his Scottish accent thick with contempt. Hunk had been waiting all of ten minutes for this tirade to begin. It must’ve been a new record. “I’m pure raging.”

“In all fairness, he did have it first.”

“He shouldn’t even be here. Doesn’t he live in Edinburgh? Why couldn’t he just Floo Powder himself to Hogsmeade and save everyone the train journey?”

“That’s a bit hypocritical. Maybe he spent the summer with the Weasleys?"

“Why would he need a copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters_ anyway? It’s not like he’s taking Care of Magical Creatures as his elective…” He blanched, his eyes wide, as he grabbed Hunk by his shoulders and swivelled him around so aggressively that he almost dropped the ice cream he’d just bought at Fortescue’s. “Please don’t tell me he’s taking Care of Magical Creatures this year.”

Hunk shrugged, trying (and failing) not to snicker at the recent memory of Lance grappling with their classmate over the pseudo-sentient book only for it to clamp its pages around his fingers and maul them into oblivion. “I can’t see why else he’d be getting it,” he offered.

Lance groaned. “As if! He is always trying to one-up me, but not this time.”

“Does this mean we’re adding Magical Creatures to the midnight class schedule?”

“Oh, aye, definitely. Do you remember where we left the map?”

“I think it’s in the restricted section.”

Despite the certainty in his friend’s voice, Hunk figured it was unlikely they’d ever do much more than faff about the castle after curfew. Though Lance’s pilfering of a particularly complicated and hilarious map from Filch’s office had initially inspired his creation of an after-hours duelling club to compensate for the incompetence of their Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers, it had soon turned into an excuse for him and Hunk to explore the grounds without fear of being caught. Being best friends in two different Houses really sucked sometimes.

“How long do we have until we have to be at the station?” Hunk asked.

“I’m not sure. I want to go and check out Quality Quidditch Supplies before we go.”

“Lance, buddy, you should probably be on the team _before_ you buy the broom.”

The Ravenclaw shot him a winning smile. “Why wait when I’m obviously the best choice?”

“That’s what you said last year.”

“And last year I didn’t have a Nimbus 1700.” He gestured wildly at the lavish, streamlined broom advertised in the window as they approached.

“That looks expensive. Do you even have enough money?”

“Pshh, probably.” His pockets, once unturned, spared ten Galleons, a handful of Sickles, and a crinkled Bank of Scotland note. “I’m going to have to pop to the Gringotts Exchange.”

Hunk sighed tiredly, not even surprised at Lance’s attempt to scrape together the funds. “Really? Somehow I doubt what you’ve got there will cover it.”

“Uh, excuse _you_ and your sudden numeracy skills?”

“Uh-huh, since I’m definitely not taking Arithmancy because _I’m good with numbers_ or anything.”

“No-one can convert money that fast. I bet you don’t even know what this is in your dirty English money.” Lance waved what was _clearly_ a ten-pound bill in Hunk’s face.

“Whatever. Just go do your thing. I’ll be waiting over by the Leaky Cauldron. Don’t be late or my nana will cuff your ears.”

He had every intention of leaving as soon as possible. Nothing good ever came from missing the Express. Nonetheless, he wanted to revel in Lance’s absence for a little while, at least – in between teaching him to navigate the tube, showing him around all the tourist traps like Trafalgar Square (“How long has that guy been _up_ there?”) and Buckingham Palace (“Does Dumbledore live _here_?”), and listening to him complain about how outrageous the newly implemented Stooging Penalty was, Hunk was starting to find him annoying. It was hardly surprising, but he prided himself on his patience and didn’t appreciate its wearing thin.

He was debating making the five-minute trip to Florean Fortescue’s to get another ice cream for the road when something he could only describe as his ‘Hufflepuff-drive-to-help-lost-things’ kicked in and his focus honed in on a tall halfling. Only, he was fairly sure it wasn’t actually a halfling, just a _really, really small_ child, even by first-year standards. He must’ve been a first-year if his bulging backpack was anything to go by.

Hunk couldn't quite place his blood status, however – whilst he walked with the ease of experience amongst wizardkind, barely batting an eye at an enthusiastic street peddler trying to palm off a couple of suspiciously vibrant Puffskeins, his choice of Muggle clothing was questionable. Whilst pure-blood supremacy was no longer as prevalent amongst the youth as it had been before 1981, Hunk still would’ve felt more comfortable dealing with a Muggle-born.

 _But…he’s just a child._ He couldn’t help but notice he was alone. No parent or guardian or friendly shopping-guide had stepped in when it was clear that the kid was lost, pouring over a map twice the size of his head and almost three times his arm span. No-one had told him he could fit that cauldron trundling behind him on the floor inside his rucksack with a simple Shrinking Charm, nor had they pointed out the particularly large smear of ash on his cheek, no doubt from an overzealous use of Floo Powder.

Before Hunk even realised what he was doing, he had started walking. He simply couldn’t help it.

“Hey, kid, you lost?”

Two large, brown eyes peered at him over the edge of the map. "Pardon?"

“I – uh, couldn’t help but notice you look a little bit lost?” For a second, no-one said anything, and Hunk almost lost his nerve. He bit his lip. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ollivanders.” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, so much so that Hunk wondered whether puberty would ever be able to correct it. It knocked him off his guard a bit, but he was not one to be deterred.

“Oh, yeah, sure. I know where that is. Let me show you.”

The kid stared at him doubtfully. “Who are you?”

Hunk balked. _Right, stranger danger._ “I’m Hunk. I’m a third-year.” The kid seemed to consider this for a second, his face scrunched up with the effort of thought. Hunk realised he should probably stop calling him ‘the kid’ in his head. “And you are…?”

“My name’s – uh…” He suddenly faltered, and wet his lips. “It’s Pidge.”

Hunk choked a bit on his spit. “ _Pidge_? Like pigeon?”

Pidge glowered, chubby cheeks darkening to beet red. “Yes? What kind of name is _Hunk_?”

"Oh, it’s a nickname. You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my real name _._ ”

“Try me.”

“No, not happening. I already get enough schtick from Lance for it. So, Ollivanders, was it?”

Once again, Pidge’s face folded into a rather uncomfortable looking expression that made Hunk think of a computer rattling through various different calculations at speeds far exceeding light and sound. Then, for the first time, he saw Pidge smile, close-mouthed and lopsided. “Sure. Where is it?”

He had just turned and cleared his throat in preparation for his granting of directions, eyes fixed on the wandmaker’s, when he realised that the cluster of people clogging up the street would’ve made it difficult – no, _impossible_ – for a child as little as Pidge to see, let alone navigate to, where he was pointing. He hesitated.

On one hand, he had no idea where Lance was, and they were rapidly approaching their rendezvous timeslot with his nana. On the other, he felt the weight of his moral obligation to help strapped to his shoulders. _I hate being a Hufflepuff._

“Come with me. Stay close.”

Somewhere in the chaos between the Leaky Cauldron and Ollivanders, Hunk took it upon himself to relieve Pidge of his ridiculously bulky bag, much to the tiny human’s protest. He was surprised at how heavy it was. Either Pidge was much stronger than he looked, or he was getting fat.

“What do you have in here?” he huffed.

“Books and stuff.”

“You do not need this many books for your first year, trust me.”

“How did you know I was a first-year?”

“I have a gift. And you’ve obviously never been here before otherwise you’d have picked up your wand first. All the best ones will be long gone by now.”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” Pidge muttered, glowering. “There’s no such thing as a ‘best one.’”

“Of course, but how many twelve-inch ash wands with a unicorn hair core do you think Mr Ollivander gets through in a day?”

“No two wands are alike.”

"Well, yeah, but most students have pretty similar wands unless you're particularly special."

“What wand do you have?”

“You know, it’s considered impolite to ask to see a lady’s wand before you take her to dinner.”

Hunk felt a sharp pinch at his side that no doubt came from Pidge, though when he glanced down he saw that he was smiling again. They had made it to the shop in one piece and, though it looked small and unassuming, wedged between Scrivenshaft’s and a blacksmith’s, it’s bulging cylindrical windows betrayed its vast interior. The shop had its own aura, as though it were encased in a bubble. Right from the slick, black brickwork to the golden print above the shop door, assuring that it was indeed a `MAKER of FINE WANDS SINCE 382BC.`

“Here we are,” Hunk announced, sliding Pidge’s bag off his shoulders. Pidge made no move to take it or enter. “Um…this _is_ what you were looking for?”

“Yes.” Pidge’s brows furrowed. “I’m just…nervous?”

“Mr Ollivander doesn’t bite, you know.” He still looked sceptical, his eyebrows raised in a manner that reminded Hunk a bit too much of himself two years ago. He knew more than any the unexpected power of the wand, and he felt his heart twang. “Have you ever bought a wand before?”

“No. My parents are…” he trailed off, and looked instantly like he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

Hunk knew what he meant. Muggles didn’t tend to visit Diagon Alley. It was just a bit too _odd_ for them.

“Don’t worry. Mine too,” he said. A young wizard receiving their first wand was a momentous occasion, but sadly one that was often not shared by their families depending on the circumstances of their birth. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

Pidge was staring at him, a mix of emotions on his face. “You…would do that?”

Hunk thought of Lance waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron, his nana at King’s Cross, the Hogwarts Express pulling out of the station…he smiled nonetheless. “Of course.”

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. Thousands of narrow boxes were piled neatly on top of each other up to the ceiling, their very dust and silence tingling with some secret magic. Hunk was struck once again by the magnificence of such a tiny, narrow space – a space where he’d, once, with all the innocence of an eleven-year-old, crossed an invisible line in a world he thought had only existed in storybooks. The musty, other-worldly smell hadn’t changed at all, not even the resonance of burned paper and charred wood. The scorch marks on the floor from unfit matches were exactly the same and, even though everything seemed to be in disarray from the perspective of an outsider, Hunk knew that that was precisely how it should have been.

“Good morning,” said a soft voice from the shop’s deep interior. An old man with unblinking moonshine eyes and silver halo-hair emerged from the shadows.

Where Pidge remained silent, Hunk spoke up. “Hello,” he said awkwardly.

“Garrett!” the shopkeeper remarked. “Hunk Garrett. How nice to see you again. Pear, twelve-and-a-half inches, quite brittle, wasn’t it?”

It never failed to unnerve Hunk how Ollivander could remember every single wand he’d ever sold and every single customer he’d ever served. “It was, yes.”

“And who,” Ollivander mused, silver eyes flickering over Pidge expectantly. “Is this?”

Pidge cleared his throat. “Pidge, sir.”

“Pidge? Pidge _what,_ my boy?" He leaned forward over the counter, scrutinising the child's face, eyes scanning over his circular glasses. “Are you related to the Potters at all?”

“It’s Pidge Gunderson. And no, sir.”

“Hm. Just as well.” Hunk swore he could detect a hint of sadness. Only a hint. “‘Gunderson’ you say? I’ve never heard of –”

“You wouldn’t have.” Pidge’s interruption was hasty and uncomfortable to the point that Hunk got the distinct impression he didn’t want to linger on his heritage any more than necessary.

Ollivander frowned. “I see. I should have just the thing for you, Mr Gunderson.” He wasted no time in retreating to the back storeroom, muttering just loud enough that his voice filtered through the boxes. “Applewood, dragon heartstring core, nine inches, rigid.”

“How can you tell?” Pidge squawked. “You haven’t even measured me.”

“I don’t need to,” the old wizard stated sagely, emerging with a half-opened leather box grasped loosely in his fingers. “It’s written all over your face. Go on. Give it a twirl.”

Hunk watched little uncertain fingers close over the wand’s beige hilt, holding it as though one would hold a fencing sword, at arm’s length and far enough away that it couldn’t harm its master in its nastiest moments. Pidge only had to wave it once, in a low, sweeping arc for Ollivander to snatch it back almost instantaneously, unfortunately slightly too late to prevent the neat stack of papers on his desk from going AWOL and scattering themselves about the room in a flurry of wind and sheets. Hunk barely had enough time to scream before a particularly vicious note attached itself to his face, covering his eyes, nose, and mouth.

“Sorry!” he heard Pidge yelp.

“It’s not your fault,” Ollivander responded. “That is clearly not the wand for you.”

Hunk ripped the paper from his face. “No kidding,” he grumbled.

“I recall one particular student exploded my favourite inkpot when we tried his first wand,” the shopkeeper said fondly, slotting the applewood wand back into its compartment.

“Exploded an _inkpot_?” Hunk remarked, incredulous. He’d never heard of such a violent reaction before. “Who managed that?”

“Matthew Holt.” An atmospheric darkness seemed to settle on the shop, perpetuated by Hunk’s own recognition of the tainted name alongside Pidge’s and Ollivander’s sudden silence. Its onset was imperceptible; like an assiduous housekeeper locking up a rambling mansion, it noiselessly went about and turned off, one by one, the mind’s thousand small accesses to pleasure.

It was Pidge’s voice that broke the quiet. “You knew Matthew Holt?”

The shop released its breath, a breath that Hunk barely even realised it had been holding, and the heaviness subsided slightly. He heard the click of boxes sliding in and out of their various compartments.  
  
“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold,” Ollivander’s voice revealed. “His was maple wood, dragon heartstring core, ten inches. A fine wand. Shame they snapped it in half when he was expelled.”

Hunk couldn’t see Pidge’s face, though the tight hunch of his shoulders and the old wandmaker’s curious silver gaze peering between the stacks gave him more information than he thought he could ever decipher from the kid’s expression alone. He noticed how Ollivander carefully pushed a box he had just selected back into its place, and retreated further into the depths of his storeroom, back beyond where the naked eye could follow.

“How do you know about Matthew Holt?” Hunk asked. There was no way a prospective Muggle-born could’ve heard about that incident, right?

“I…I’ve done a lot of reading behind Hogwart’s history. I only recognise the name.”

Hunk would’ve pressed further had it not been for the wateriness in Pidge’s tone, which was ludicrously guilt-inducing. They waited in uneasy silence for Ollivander’s return, which he suddenly felt couldn’t come soon enough. When he did eventually re-emerge, he was carrying a rather long rectangular case which boasted a rather attractive woodland pattern, with vines and leaves of silver running across the woodwork like veins.

“I think I have just the wand for you,” he said. “Hornbeam, dragon heartstring core, eleven inches, unyielding.”

Its colour was a mix between diluted yellow and rheumy green, its texture rough and grainy on the eyes. Whilst it looked much more like an elongated twig with some embellishment than a wand, even Hunk could see that its fit was perfect for Pidge’s hand, that the hilt settled so easily into the concave of his palm where its predecessor had failed. He didn’t even need to test it out, barely needed to whip it about, hardly needed to produce the golden flares that danced about his feet and in his hair to validate that this wand was obviously meant to belong to Pidge Gunderson and no other wizard.

“Splendid!” Ollivander whooped, his old, tawny face splitting into a grin. It was in the midst of handing over the box that Hunk noticed the dangerous flash in his pale eyes, the deepness of his wrinkles, the tightness of his smile. “I’ll be interested to see what path you choose…”

Whatever he meant by those words was slightly too cryptic for Hunk’s liking, but he stuck around long enough to witness Pidge hand over seven Galleons and to hold the door open on their way out. Diagon Alley was much sparser than they had left it to Hunk’s ongoing dread. They’d spent a lot longer in the shop than he would’ve liked, and the sun was rapidly reaching its zenith. _Quiznack._

“Will you be alright from here?” Hunk asked. “You should really think about getting to King’s Cross soon.”

“I’ve got everything I need.”

“Okay, good.” His exit was supposed to be quick and effortless, but even as he went to hand Pidge his rucksack back and help him stuff his new wand into the bulging front pocket, he couldn’t help but feel a lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure how he felt about leaving him by himself when it was clear he was unsupervised. _Should I tell him about the Shrinking Charm? Oh, man, he still has soot on his face…_

“Do you know where Magical Menagerie is from here?” Pidge asked.

Hunk frowned. “That’s all the way up the road. I thought you said you have everything you need?”

“I do, but I need to use the Floo Network to get to the station.”

“The Leaky Cauldron is closer.”

“I don’t know where that is.”

For the second time that day, Hunk’s Hufflepuff instinct won over, eradicating all his doubts over whether he really was friendly enough to belong in such a wholesome House. _Poor parentless boy._ He re-hoisted Pidge’s rucksack back up onto his shoulders.

“Actually, I’m headed that way right now. Do you…want to come with me?”

The transformation of Pidge’s face from one of worry, to confusion, to delight coupled with his shy nod all but banished every bad, self-depreciating thought Hunk had in his head, and he set off back towards the pub with the renewed vigour of a nasty little do-gooder on a mission.

Lance was waiting, a lone figure with a suitcase hanging from his right arm and a bagged broomstick slung over his left shoulder. He looked _pissed._

“Hunk, what the hell!” he exclaimed, arms flapping wildly like a disgruntled penguin. “I said I wouldn’t be long but _oh no –_ even though you were the one _so insistent_ on leaving, you just buggered off and left me to fend for myself! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here? I thought you’d _died_! You can’t just do that to people.”

“Sorry, sorry, I was just –”

“Did you get another ice cream from Fortescue’s?”

“No!”

“You’re talking pish, I bet you did _._ ”

“Actually, he didn’t,” Pidge muttered from his tactical position behind Hunk. “He was helping me.”

Lance’s eyes widened. “Is that a _gremlin_?”

“ _Lance,_ really?” Hunk sighed, but he was soundly ignored.

“Aw, whatever, we don’t have time for this,” Lance groaned. “The train leaves in thirty minutes.” He seemed as though he was about to turn when his eyes settled on Pidge’s face, bright and blue and searching. From Hunk’s perspective, it almost looked like his miniature companion was wilting. “Hey, buddy? You’ve got dirt on your cheek. Did you know?”

 

* * *

Something about this kid was making Lance feel nostalgic, and it wasn’t even the _good_ kind of nostalgia. It was the way he was looking at Hunk saying goodbye to his nana, all forlorn and distant, that was _really_ setting him off. He was still bitter that, even though he’d saved all year, he’d only had enough money for a slightly newer model of Boothby’s Moontrimmer. Whilst they were fairly rare nowadays since she’d gone out of business, they were still only marginally better than the school’s Shooting Stars, and he wondered whether his purchase had been worth it at all.

He liked to think that it was this disappointment in himself and his finance management that was making him feel so weird, and _definitely not_ homesickness. He’d never been homesick before in his life, and he was not going to start now. It was probably because of his preference for all things cold and grey, his aversion to spice and sunsets and scarlet streamers. As much as he’d loved Varadero’s crimson sky, he couldn’t deny that the Hebrides were his home.

But, _Pidge’s face._ It was all twisted and chubby and sad, and for the first time since he’d moved to Scotland, Lance kept seeing red every time he blinked. Like soup, boiling and stirring, burned in some places with black crumbs, and pepper, and children playing hopscotch on streets that looked like oil-stained pages underneath a devastating, home-cooked red. He could feel his heart dancing the bolero, and he longed more than anything to just be _cool._

There was also something weirdly familiar about Pidge that Lance just couldn’t put his finger on. It might’ve been anything – the freckles, the glasses, maybe even the hair (which, by the way, was diabolical, looked like someone had stuck a bowl on the kid’s head and cut around the outline but had somehow _missed chunks_ , he resembled like a highland cow)  – but whatever it was, it was seriously unnerving him.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice barely carrying over the din of the station.

Pidge jumped, his daze momentarily lost, and he huffed. “What?”

“Are you alright? You seem a bit…down.”

“I’m fine.”

It was definitely a lie, Lance could tell. He was good at reading people. He leaned forwards against his trolley, tapping his arms against its rim idly. A few students rushed past him, their school robes flapping about their ankles. Lance snorted at their eagerness. _Who wears their school uniform before the term has even begun?_ He might’ve stuck out like a sore thumb in Diagon Alley with his baseball cap and Jams, but at least he wasn’t attracting weird looks from Muggles. Okay, maybe it was a little weird that he wasn’t holding a skateboard to complete the look, but that would’ve been impractical given all the luggage he had. He really should’ve packed that. The battlements would’ve made an awesome ramp.

He made a mental note to send a letter to his grandparents as soon as he arrived at Hogwarts, whilst risking a glance towards Hunk and his nana. Though he was within earshot, the language they spoke was incomprehensible to his ears. It must’ve been nice to have a common culture. Most time he felt like he was half-in and half-out of reality.

“My parents aren’t here either,” Lance supplied absently. Pidge seemed just as surprised as he was by his input. Lance’s subconscious apparently hadn’t been a fan of the awkward silence stretching between them. Once his mouth started, it never really stopped. “You’re lucky Hunk found you when he did, or else you might’ve wandered down Knockturn Alley or something. They say Muggle-borns who venture there don’t come back.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s true! I bet the Purists would sacrifice you to the Devil if you gave them the chance.”

Pidge snorted. It was the closest Lance had come to seeing him laugh as of yet. “Purists.”

“Aye, the pure-blood supremacists.”

“I know what they are.”

The cold snap of his tone caught Lance off guard. “ _Ooooo,_ someone’s been reading Bathilda Bagshot,” he teased.

Pidge scowled at him, puffy cheeks and furrowed brows dominating his face. “I don’t see why you should care so much. You’re not even a Muggle-born. The McClains are a magical clan. You’re _at least_ a half-blood.”

Lance arched one his eyebrows. Okay, so this kid had really done his research. “Well, _technically_ , aye, I’m a half-blood. But both my parents are Muggles.”

“That…doesn’t make any sense.”

“My dad’s a Squib.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. He probably deserved it anyway, being descended from a blood traitor and all.” Even though he’d meant it in jest, coupling his words with a smirk and a fond chuckle, Pidge started scowling again.

“Lance, can you please stop scaring the newbie,” Hunk chastised as he walked over to their trolley, throwing a final wave over his shoulder. “I don’t want him to think that everyone at Hogwarts is out to get him.”

“Finally,” Lance whooped. “Are you finished with your tearful goodbyes yet? I want to get this show on the road!”

Hunk ignored him. “Pidge, do you know how the barrier works?”

“Of course he does, he’s read _Hogwarts: A History_ in his sleep.” Despite what he said, Lance liked to think that the kid was only hanging around on this side of the wall to keep him company, not because he didn’t know how to get to Platform 9¾ by himself.

“I do,” Pidge quipped, smacking Lance with his wand box.

“ _Ow,_ careful with that thing!”

Their passage through the barrier was quick and seamless if Lance didn't count that the momentum of the trolley had almost pulled him over the edge of the platform and onto the tracks. He really hoped no-one saw that.

The Island of Mull’s entire population was probably a little over a thousand, so Lance’s subsequent lack of exposure to crowds probably should have made him feel much more claustrophobic than he did. He chalked it down to the novelty of difference that he was so enamoured with groups of people and loved getting himself lost in a throng of bodies. There was a particular irony to his contentment and Hunk’s distress when it came to navigating the crowds of Platform 9¾. Commuting in London was basically warfare. It was a constant campaign of claiming territory, inching forward, never relaxing for a moment. If you did, someone would step past you, or even _on_ you. Lance, ever the competitor, _loved_ it.

“Hang on a tick,” he announced, unwrapping his headphones from his neck and kneeling down to shove his Walkman into his suitcase. Pidge was eyeing him curiously.

“What is that?”

“What?”

He pointed at what Lance assumed was the cassette. “That.”

“ _Eyes of Innocence_ by Miami Sound Machine.”

Pidge’s brows crumpled like paper. “I’m sorry, what?”

“ _Please_ don’t get him started,” Hunk groaned.

“It’s really new so you wouldn’t have heard of it,” Lance explained. Nonetheless, he popped the tape out and handed it to the Pidge, who turned it over in his hands a couple of times. The fascination in his eyes bordered on fanatical and, when he made no move to hand it back, Lance exchanged a look with Hunk and frowned. “Um…you have seen a cassette before, right?”

Pidge glanced up. His mouth was hanging open, a small circle of awe. “Cassette?”

“Yes?” He reached over and took it from between the boy’s hands, and clicked it back into the Walkman. “You put it inside one of these and then you can listen to music anywhere.” Pidge still looked baffled, and Lance hesitated. “You know, a Stowaway?”

“Stowaway?” Pidge parroted.

“A Walkman? Come on, Pidge, I live on an _island_ and I know what this is. Did you come from under a rock?”

Hunk nudged him, rather roughly, and he bit his tongue. Something dark and compassionate in his friend’s eyes warned him against pressing on the matter, so he just handed over the Walkman begrudgingly, and watched as he fiddled with it, utterly spellbound.

“You can listen to music _anywhere_?”

“Yes.”

Before he could stop him, Pidge had ducked down and fastened the headphones over his ears. Lance knew that all that would be playing was white noise, yet he noted how the boy’s face was scrunched up in concentration, as though he were listening very hard for something meaningful. He looked to Hunk for help, but all he could do was shrug.

“And… _this_ is music you enjoy?”

Lance sniggered hopelessly. “Not really, I’m not a Pink Floyd kind of guy.” He carefully prised the Walkman from Pidge’s hands and unravelled his headphones from around his head. “You do realise that Muggle technology doesn’t work in places like this?”

Pidge flushed. “Oh.”

“Magical interference and whatnot.”

“Which means buying that thing was pointless,” Hunk interjected, forever the pragmatist.

“Oh, lay off,” Lance argued, packing it away deep in the confines of his luggage. “You enjoyed my karaoke! I’m the best singer in our year.”

“Just like you’re the best duellist?”

Lance groaned. He was never going to live down his failures, was he? “Bill beat me one time! _One time!"_

“Duellist?” Pidge asked. “As in spell duelling?”

“Aye. I’m pretty good with Charms, if I do say so myself.”

“Of course you are,” Hunk huffed. “Anyway, we’ve wasted enough time. We should probably get on before we’re left behind.”

There were only a few students left who hadn’t yet boarded the Express, first-years who were reluctant to leave mummy and daddy behind, and the forgetful sort who’d left their owl cages or new cauldrons stranded on benches. It would be departing soon.

The first few carriages were already packed, and it was with no small amount of grief that Lance let Hunk take his suitcase from the top of the trolley and board upon being summoned by a dark-skinned girl with golden hoop earrings through an ajar window.

“See you at the Feast, pal.”

He couldn’t help but feel slightly awkward at the fact that Pidge had, for some reason, decided _not_ to board at that moment and was instead still tailing after him. Lance chanced a look over his shoulder and was struck by the inherent discomfort in Pidge's movements – the expression his face was twisted into, the way he walked all signalled how uneasy the kid was in his own skin.

“Nervous?” he asked, though the feeling in his gut whispered that it wasn’t just nerves that rendered him so anxious.

“No?” Pidge replied. He sounded genuinely perplexed. Lance bet he was frowning.

“What House do you think you’ll get Sorted into?” There was a long pause. “You _do_ know about the Houses, right?”

“Yes. I was thinking. I actually don’t know.”

“Well you won’t be in Slytherin, that’s for certain. Do you have any siblings?”

“Um, no.” There was some misplaced tension there, and Lance resisted the urge to look down at his face again.

“They say you tend to be in the same House as your family,” he continued. The thought of his sister, Veronica, in Ravenclaw robes almost made him scoff. “But I think that’s dogshite.”

“Pardon?”

“What?”

“I didn’t understand what you just said. Your accent is very strong.”

Lance snorted. “Comin’ frae _ye_ , Sassenach.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ye wee English laddie.”

“Okay, now you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Whit ur ye talkin’ abit? Thes is jist hoo Ah gab.”

“No-one talks like that!”

“I’ll have you know my grandpa does,” Lance replied, easily slipping back into a more coherent vernacular.

“It sounds ridiculous,” Pidge retorted. He sounded furious but he was smiling. Lance counted that as a small victory. Then, the great locomotive heaved, expelling steam and heat, and they had to stop.

"We'd better get on here," Lance muttered. He hadn't even reached the final carriage yet and was certain he hadn't passed by anyone he knew well enough to save him a seat. He _really_ hoped that someone had saved him a seat.

He laughed raucously at Pidge's great difficulty crossing the gap between the train and the platform edge and entertained himself with the image of the gremlin-sized boy falling down the crack. The look on his face would’ve been _priceless_. But Lance helped him across anyway, one foot on either side of the gap and arm outstretched.

“Thank you.” He was so _proper._

It was once they were both situated on the train, just as it was shuddering out of the station, that they reached an impasse.

“So,” he started. “I’m going to go and find my friends. Um…what about you? You’ll be alright?” He somehow doubted that Rolo and Nyma would be thrilled if he invited a first-year into their compartment, even if Pidge was a good person on whom he could deflect their japery. He’d barely seemed fazed by Lance’s teasing the whole way to the station.

“Everyone into their compartments, please!”

A voice drifted through the carriage, gentle as a brushing feather yet harsh like a bird’s beak. Lance recognised it instantly. The girl to whom it belonged, hair burning silver, lifted his heart and all he could think was _beautiful._ There was no other way to describe her without falling short of the mark. If he could try, he’d only be able to say she had perfect ears, perfect little ears like they were carved out of…something. It was incredibly hard to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears.

“Allura?” he breathed, his gaze immediately honing in on a tall figure waltzing down the carriage, her very presence parting students like the Red Sea before her. The months had changed her. Where before she had been pretty, now she was lovely as well. Her cornflower eyes found him immediately, and he felt like he was drowning. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” They had the same accent, thick and lilting like cream. She was already in her robes, and the stark silver of her Prefect badge flashed coldly against indigo and black.

Lance stared at it dumbly and whistled. "Flitwick appointed _you_?”

“Yes,” she said, completely deadpan. “You have a problem with that?”

“What? _No_ , I just – uh…congratulations?" Lance coughed and leaned himself against the window as nonchalantly as he could manage without careening forwards in tandem with the train’s juddering.

“Good.” Allura’s gaze flickered to the bundled Moontrimmer slung over Lance's shoulder. "Trying out again?"

Lance’s eyes widened. “ _Obviously._ I don’t know how the team survived without me last year – once the new Captain gets a look at my slick moves, he’ll _have to_ conscript me. Who even _is_ the new Captain anyway? Do you know? It better not be Davies. I hate that guy.”

Allura arched a slender, silver eyebrow, lips pursed and arms crossed. “I would tell you but then I’d have to kill you.” Lance barked with laughter, probably much too loud. The most wonderful thing in life, he thought, was to be delirious, and the most wonderful kind of delirium was being in love. In the morning mist, hazy and amorous, London was delirious. It squinted through the windows of the Hogwarts Express, milky pink, without caring where it was going. “As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I have a job to do.”

When Lance didn’t move for a few moments, Pidge tugged as his sleeve – _shit, I forgot he was still here._ “Move out of the way. You’re blocking the corridor.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

“And, please, get into a compartment,” Allura said as she elegantly squeezed past Lance’s suitcase. “At least until we’re completely out of London.”

“Anything for you, princess,” Lance drawled, though he couldn’t help but feel slightly embarrassed at Pidge’s insistent hand dragging him through a sliding door and into a compartment that he thought was vacant – until he noticed its sole occupant, sporting an unusual jumper-scarf-hat combo, peering at them through square glasses over the pages of a thick textbook.

“Smooth, lover boy,” Pidge scoffed. Lance shoved him, feeling not-at-all-guilty when he landed bum first on the floor.

“Shut up, gremlin. How long ‘til we’re out of London?”

“About twenty minutes!” the fashion-faux-pas chirped.

Lance groaned. It was going to be a _long_ journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when Pidge is clueless about Muggle technology, Lance stans Gloria Estefan, and Hunk can't not be helpful. I'm so glad I can finally put my knowledge of '80s culture to use. Also, I definitely stole Hermione's line from the Philosopher's Stone when she points out the dirt on Ron's nose before flouncing off in search of Trevor #queen  
> Fun fact: the original Voltron first aired in 1984.
> 
> Pidge is eleven.  
> Hunk, Lance and Keith are thirteen.  
> Allura is fifteen.  
> Lotor & his generals are sixteen.  
> Shiro is seventeen.


	2. Lumos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone still alive after Season 6 dropped? That was an emotional rollercoaster.

Keith liked stargazing. He especially liked those early autumn evenings, when the stars had first come out, and the warm glow of sunset still stained the rim of the western sky. Sometimes, the moon was also visible, a pale white slice while the sun tarried. Just for a few minutes, all the celestial lights would be present at the same time.

The Burrow had a good view night sky. So did the Marmora Mansion.

The problem with night-time in the Great Hall was that when the sun had set, no mere candle could replace it. The ceiling was only a mirror, foggy and fake. It blurred every detail with its ragged veils, punctured at various distances by the reddish glow of open flame and the waxen yellow of false stars. It looked wet, but Keith felt warm, blanketed by his red robes and the promise of food and the breath of a hundred or more students chattering about a well-spent summer. He would’ve fallen asleep if only the benches were a little bit more comfortable.

The Gryffindors had been moved to one of the middle tables and Shiro had insisted that they sit closest to the podium so he could welcome the newest members of the House first. Sure, Keith could have declined and sat with his friends closer to the door, but he figured he’d monopolised enough of Bill’s time over the holidays already, and he’d see them later anyway. Shiro, in between commencing his Head Boy duties, revising for his N.E.W.T.s, and captaining the Quidditch team, would be much harder to come by later in the term, and – whilst he didn’t appreciate their proximity to Snape’s slimy glare – Keith selfishly wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

He listened tiredly to the conversation he was having with Dianne and stared down the table towards the doors. McGonagall was lecturing a cluster of first-years, no doubt on Sorting Ceremony etiquette, and he noticed a blond-haired boy practically swooning with nerves.

“Jo’s doing well,” Dianne remarked, and Keith vaguely recognised the name of her older sister, Head Girl when he’d first started at Hogwarts. “Lives in Exeter now. She’s decided to go to university.”

“Really?” Shiro’s voice feigned polite interest. “I thought she’d have taken up writing.”

“She always did love books.”

They then started talking about mining and Muggle politics, and Keith zoned out. Shiro seemed to have some knowledge of what Dianne was referencing, but not a lot, and soon he was floundering. It was purely good timing that McGonagall chose to bring the first-years in at that moment, for the whole hall settled into a lulled hush.

Keith perked up, his eyes immediately finding the tuft of ginger hair that betrayed a Weasley, and he shot Charlie what he hoped was a reassuring smile when the procession stopped just in front of the High Table. In their black robes, they all looked mutually indiscernible, but there were a few whose features were hard to miss. A girl with vibrant pink hair that _in no way_ could’ve been natural, a South Asian boy with a multi-coloured scarf peeking through his cape, a wicked-looking girl with eerie violet eyes…

The very nature of magic was distinction and wizardkind perfectly reflected all its oddities.

“Welcome to Hogwarts.” McGonagall’s voice rang out like a bell, echoing around the cavernous space with a tone of sovereignty so absolute that a few of the more emotionally delicate shivered. “Before the Welcoming Feast, we must sort all first-year students into their proper Houses.”

The Sorting Hat looked more than ready to belt out its song, sitting on the four-legged stool all proud and tattered and musty. Its opening line, though different to that which it had sung in 1982, encouraged Keith’s mind to take him back to when he too had been sat on that same stool, eyes open to the blackness of the hat’s interior whilst it whispered into his ear.

“ _A Marmora? How well you’d gel with Slytherin. But it has to be_ Gryffindor!”

His reverie merged with the melody of the present-day whilst the hat continued into the next line. Though there was no tune, no instrumental backing, most students had taken it upon themselves to clap along. Shiro was grinning absurdly as he did so, and he nudged Keith roughly in an attempt to encourage him to join in.

He saw that his dormmates, Kirley and Donaghan, were dancing on the table, arms linked as they rotated around one another more and more violently and kicked at each other’s shins. Golden goblets, cutlery, and plates clattered onto the stone floor in the fray, and Keith could just about distinguish Myron’s warbling, unbroken voice singing above the din, and Bill’s humoured hooting. He didn’t have the heart to be embarrassed for them yet winced at McGonagall’s unimpressed sigh, which surely guaranteed a stern scolding later in the evening.

The hall exploded into applause at the song’s end, and everyone cheered as Kirley and Donaghan bowed low, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders whilst their pointed hats skimmed the table’s surface. Kirley must’ve pushed Donaghan too far forward because the next thing Keith knew, he had toppled to floor face-first, and Bill was snorting with laughter.

“And, now…” McGonagall’s voice, once again, silenced all. She reached into the breast pocket of her emerald cape and extracted an old, rolled up parchment. “When I call your name, you will put on the Hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted.”

Keith paid no attention to the first couple of names, if only because they were Sorted into the other Houses. The first Gryffindor was a boy called Richard Carter, who was followed immediately by Ben Copper. Shiro invited them both to sit next to him. Whilst Richard seemed normal enough, excitable even, Ben was pale and sweaty and quivering. He flinched at the raucous applause that welcomed him, and actually _squeaked_ when Shiro asked if he was alright and offered him some water. It wouldn’t have been so funny if Keith were more empathetic.

The next few names passed with little issue. Keith chanced a glance at the table on the other side of the aisle when the first Slytherin was announced. His eyes were quick to find Acxa. His sister looked horrendously bored, her face twisted into a mask of apathy and annoyance. One of her classmates, a peach-skinned redhead whose high ponytail pulled the skin of her scalp so tight that Keith wondered if that was why her smile was so wide, poked her cheek, and Acxa _glowered_. He watched them bicker for a bit before he diverted his attention to the loud cheer from the Hufflepuff table behind him – a blonde girl called Penny Haywood skipped over from the stool to join their ranks.

Shiro had somehow managed to palm Ben off on Dianne after he’d almost fainted from the shock of seeing the ghost of Sir Nick’s nearly-severed neck.

“I guess he won’t be trying out for the Quidditch team,” he said quietly in Japanese, his choice of tongue ensuring that their conversation was entirely private. “He’s scared of his own shadow.”

Keith snorted and had just opened his mouth to comment when suddenly Shiro’s face dropped like a hot air balloon gone stone cold. An eerie chill pierced the air, and at once, the celebrations and conversations died. The silence that followed was unlike any of the others before – it was much heavier and much less complete, permeated by whispers amongst those like Keith who had no clue what was happening.

“Shiro?” Keith asked, though his focus had honed in on McGonagall, still standing tall at her podium. “What’s wrong?”

McGonagall cleared her throat, and repeated the name that Keith had been too distracted to hear. As soon as the words passed her lips, he understood everything. Even the Muggle-borns sensed something wasn’t right and shut up.

“Holt, Katherine?”

The silence thickened. It had a quality and dimension of its own. It was the boldest form of dissent the school could manage. It screamed, _we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong._

“Is there a Ms Katherine Holt here, please?”

McGonagall, to her credit, remained unfazed.

No-one from the remaining cluster of children stepped up. They were shuffling nervously as a unit, exchanging confused frowns and shrugging at one another.

“Holt?” Fifth-year Prefect Angelica Cole broke the silence with a harsh whisper. “You don’t think…she’s related to that nutjob who went looking for the Cursed Vaults, do you?”

Her voice was all it took for the hall to reawaken. What started off as a few murmurs grew, like a crescendo, into a clamour of angry, anxious, and confused protests. Throughout it all, Shiro remained quiet, eyes fixated on the empty plate in front of him.

Keith awkwardly tapped his shoulder, and he jumped. “Are you alright?”

“What?”

“What are you thinking about?”

Shiro sucked in a breath, and Keith really wished he was better a gauging people’s emotions because right now, he had _no idea_ what was going through his head.

“Nothing. Just…I forgot his sister would be starting this year.”

“He had a sister?” Angelica breathed, tactless.  

“It doesn’t look like she’s here though,” Dianne commented, gesturing to McGonagall’s efficient sifting of the unSorted first-years.

Angelica crossed her arms. “Good riddance. That family’s nothing but trouble.”

“I’m sorry, but what’s going on?” Ben piped up, voice thin and shaky. He looked pale, and was still quivering. “Who are you talking about?”

“A student who was expelled last year,” Dianne explained softly. “It’s nothing to worry about now.”

“Expelled? What for?” Ben’s dark eyes were filled with fear.

“He endangered the whole school looking for the Cursed Vaults,” Angelica said primly. “They’re not actually real, though. He was just insane.”

“He’s d-d-d-dangerous, then?”

Shiro’s departure from the table would have been entirely unnoticed had Keith not been focusing all his attention on him from the second the conversation had started. His robes flapped about him in a manner that could’ve been dramatic if only he weren’t so listless, if only he didn’t look so _tired_. Keith rose too, but Dianne reached over and grabbed his wrist. She shook her head at him.

“Don’t. I think he wants to be alone.”

Keith scowled, but slowly sat back down anyway. McGonagall was at her podium again, clearing her throat and shushing with all the ferocity of a disgruntled cat. Even though she continued on with the allocations as though nothing had happened, the tension in the air was still palpable. Keith almost felt sorry for the next callout, a flame-haired girl called Tulip Karasu who was sorted into Ravenclaw, due to the lethargy of her welcoming.

Almost. His mind was elsewhere.

He barely remembered Matthew Holt. They weren’t friends or even acquaintances. But he’d been close with Shiro, despite their House rivalry. It was difficult to believe that someone so infamous for jeopardising the safety of students could be friends with a guy like Shiro. He guessed that was why he never wanted to talk about what happened between them.

There were other incidents that cropped up throughout the rest of the Sorting Ceremony, namely involving a less-than-enthusiastic cheer from Slytherin for a boy called Rowan Khanna, whose family apparently had the same reputation as the Weasleys for being too poor and too strange, Kirley and Bill’s removal from the Great Hall for the “improper hospitality” they expressed towards their newly-Sorted Gryffindor siblings, and a few malicious jeers from Purists when Nymphadora Tonks was called.

Nevertheless, none were as phenomenal as the non-appearance of Katherine Holt.

Shiro had not returned.

Keith was itching to go and find him in spite of Dianne’s reproachful glances. To say that the situation he had been left in, surrounded by Prefects and first-years, was uncomfortable would have been an understatement, and he was _worried,_ damn it. McGonagall had just started rolling up her scroll when a small, sharp voice punctured the air.

“Um, I haven’t been Sorted yet.”

Keith would never have heard it if he hadn’t been sat so close to the High Table. He was also fairly sure that he would never have seen its owner had it not been for this position because the boy to whom the voice belonged was too small to be seen properly by anyone who was not sat directly next to him. He had round glasses and a round face – a strangely familiar face actually – but he was otherwise utterly unnoticeable, drowning in his hand-me-down robes. It was not surprising that McGonagall had missed him.

She stared down her nose with a level of severity unmatched by any teacher in the castle (except, perhaps, Snape) and frowned heavily. “Pardon?”

“My name was never called.”

“And what,” McGonagall said, words scythe-like, “is your name?”

“Pidge Gunderson.”

She seemed to think about this for a few moments, readjusting her spectacles, unfurling the scroll, and scanning through it with hawk-like precision. Hardly anyone had noticed the exchange, and he heard some gripes amongst his Housemates regarding when the food was going to appear.

“Your name isn’t on the list,” McGonagall said finally.

“I have my acceptance letter.”

Pidge began rummaging through his pockets furiously and eventually gave her a crumpled piece of paper. McGonagall regarded it carefully, eyes flitting between the boy and the written evidence in her hand. It wasn’t that she seemed unconvinced, just confused by the whole process. Keith had hardly ever seen McGonagall look so bewildered before. It took some time, but when she cleared her throat, everyone whipped their heads around to stare again.

“Come here, boy,” she commanded, gesturing to the stool.

He obeyed. There was no hesitation. The Sorting Hat almost engulfed Pidge’s whole head, slipping past his ears and coming to rest just over his nose. His glasses had been knocked clean off by its force, and he reached up to pull them away from his neck. Whilst this was clearly amusing to most people watching, their laughter died when it became apparent that this Sorting was going to be a little longer than the rest.

It took almost two full minutes for someone to speak up.

“Woah, do you think he’s going to be a Hatstall?” Charlie gushed. He had been the last Gryffindor to be Sorted, so he was sat at the head of the table.

Angelica snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Hatstall’s are really rare.”

“I heard they only happen once every fifty years,” Dianne said.

“What’s a Hatstall?” Ben asked.

“It’s when the Sorting Hat takes longer that five minutes to Sort someone,” Angelica huffed. Keith really hoped it didn’t take that long. He was starting to get impatient.  

Charlie was bouncing in his seat. “Is anyone timing this? He’s still going!”

Ben fiddled nervously with the cuff of his sleeve. “When was the last Hatstall?”

“About fifteen years ago?” Dianne replied uncertainly after some pondering.

Every second made Shiro’s empty space feel that much more pertinent. The void to Keith’s right practically pulsated. _Patience_ , he thought. So much of this was patience – waiting, and thinking, and doing things right. So much of all this, so much of _living_ was patience and thinking. Keith was not a fan of either.

“Who even _is_ he?” Angelica grumbled. “Pidge Gunderson? I don’t recognise the name.”

Dianne honed in on the closest familiar non-Muggle-born at the table. “Keith, do you know him?”

Pure-blood lineage was something he was knowledgeable about only from exposure. He had no interest in the eugenics or politics behind any of it. There was one thing he did understand however. Even though Pidge _looked_ familiar, ‘Gunderson’ was not a name he equated with wizardkind.

“No.”

Angelica groaned. “How long is this going to _take_?”

It took an age. It wasn’t a Hatstall after all, but it came very close. Pidge’s mouth was pressed into a very thin line the entire time. Whilst he was blissfully unaware of all the gawking and whispering and complaints, his expression betrayed that whatever the Hat was muttering in his ears was much, much more daunting. The fake candle-stars burned severely overhead.

And then the Hat opened its slit-mouth, and the hall caught its breath.

“Slytherin!”

 

* * *

Even at the tail-end of the Welcoming Feast, the Slytherin table had not yet recovered from the latest addition to its ranks. The infiltrator – Pidge Gunderson – was like an alien to them, foreign yet captivating. He was the centre of attention and it looked as though he hated every minute of it.

“Where did you get your robes from?” a first-year asked him. She had a mean face and mottled hair, and Lotor recognised her immediately as a Snyde. Those violet eyes were a dead giveaway.  

“They’re second-hand.”

“You’re joking!” she sneered. “They’re too big for you. You must’ve inherited them.”

“I don’t have any siblings.”

“They didn’t have any that fitted you, then. You’re awfully _small._ Should’ve gone to Twilfitt and Tattings. Their measurements are always accurate.” She leaned across the table towards him, eyebrows raised. “Or…could you not afford it?”

There was some chirruping laughter from a selection of girls sat beside her, all of whom brandished brand new, perfectly fitting robes of black gossamer. Lotor just sipped his pumpkin juice and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was not looking forward to walking these brats to the Dungeons later. To his right, Acxa sighed heavily, clearly dejected at having pulled the short straw alongside him.

“It’s kids like that who give our House a bad name,” she muttered darkly, stabbing at her treacle tart. 

“Are you going to eat that?” Zethrid asked. She was still on the savouries, working her way violently through a pile of potatoes, pie, and lamb chops. Lotor would’ve wondered where she put it all, but her muscles spoke for themselves.

Acxa just pushed her plate across the table towards her and grimaced as she spooned the mangled pudding onto the food heap.

“How can you eat _so much_ without being sick?” Ezor moaned.

“She ate half the trolley on the way here,” Acxa pointed out.

“I only had a few cauldron cakes,” Zethrid retorted through mouthfuls of sausage.

“ _Only_. I remember pumpkin tarts, peppermint toads, _and_ Cockroach Clusters.”

She shrugged. “I was hungry.”

The hall was getting sparse. The candles overhead waned, their flames low. A lot of students and teachers had already gone to bed, including the other House’s first-years. Dumbledore was wittering away to the History of Magic professor, Binns, and seemed quite unaware that he had, ironically, fallen asleep in his chair. The Fat Friar was still at the Hufflepuff table, though Lotor had no idea why because it wasn’t like he could actually digest anything, and Narti was having what looked like a riveting non-verbal conversation with the Bloody Baron. Her cat, a smoky half-Kneazle called Kova, licked his paws absently from his place in her lap. She was rarely seen without him nowadays.

“When are we leaving?” Ezor asked, staring uneasily at the Baron’s silver-stained shirt through the corner of her eye. “I’m tired.”

“I’m waiting for Zethrid to finish her food,” Lotor replied pointedly.

“That’s going to take a while,” Acxa commented.

“I’m still only on course four.”

Ezor made to faceplant dramatically onto the table before she remembered that her own plate was still brimming with sauce, and settled for twirling her ponytail impatiently instead. “No offense, Zethrid, but can’t we just _go_?”

“ _You_ can,” Lotor said, “but I have more decorum than that. Carry on, Zethrid.”

Ezor pouted. Even her freckles looked like they were frowning. “Damn you guys and your posh-ness.”

“Now, now, Ezor. Not all of us have manners as diabolical as you.”

Prefect duties on the Express up north had ensured that Lotor hadn’t been able to spend much time with his friends yet he saw that nothing had changed. Acxa was still moody, Zethrid was still monstrous, Ezor was still annoying, and Narti was still…odd. It had been a surprise to see that she had started wearing the hijab, but as long as it didn’t interfere with Quidditch practice, it had nothing to do with him.

She was still conversing with the Bloody Baron, whose penitent chains rattled ominously with every sign he made. His gaunt face was twisted into a sneer of contempt and Lotor guessed they were discussing Peeves’s desecration of the trifle earlier.

“An indestructible spirit of chaos,” the Bloody Baron grumbled aloud, his voice hollow and hoarse. Narti nodded sagely in agreement before signing a quick “farewell” as he melted away into the aether. Kova leapt artfully onto the table and started sniffing at the ectoplasm he’d left in his wake.

“Ugh, that’s _disgusting_ ,” Ezor moaned, unsheathing her wand. “I’ll never understand why you enjoy talking with him, Narti. He’s so creepy.” Gripping the hilt firmly, she pointed the tip at the mucus-like substance on the table and wrinkled her nose. “ **Tergeo**.”

With each flick of her wrist, Ezor started to smear the ectoplasm across the woodwork. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Acxa griped. “You’re just spreading it everywhere.”

“You’re meant to use Scourgify,” Zethrid interrupted, reaching out to protect her cutlery from the rapidly encroaching viscosity.

“I know what I’m doing!” Ezor protested despite evidence suggesting the contrary.

Lotor rolled his eyes emphatically, fingers closing around the hilt of his own wand, whose scabbard was fastened to his braces. The silver gilding was cold to touch and glittered like a jewel in the candlelight.

“ **Skurge** ,” he stated, smirking as the liquid instantly shrunk and melted away as though bundled by an invisible cloth. “Honestly, girls, didn’t you learn anything in Charms?”

Before anyone could retort, Narti had risen silently to her feet. Though her presence often exuded invisibility, it was easy to tell when she wanted to be noticed. Kova mewled loudly, and the four Slytherins swivelled in their seats to fix their eyes on his owner expectantly.

“I’m leaving,” Narti signed silently, face deadpan as ever.

“See you later,” Acxa replied.

“No fair!” Ezor whined. “How come she gets to go to bed and it’s not rude?”

“Because she’s not going to _bed,_ you eejit. She has to pray.”

Narti just shrugged apologetically and left, Kova following close behind, weaving in between upturned goblets and dirty plates.

“You think the house-elves would’ve started washing up by now,” Acxa said. She was leaning back in her chair and fiddling with her hairclips. The tautness of her black bun coupled with the frown-lines across her forehead made her look more severe than usual. “I hope they haven’t gotten lazy since we’ve been gone.”

“Give them a break,” Zethrid huffed. She had moved onto her fifth course, but was struggling to finish her quiche. “It’s not as though they had hundreds of mouths to feed tonight.”

“I never took you for such an egalitarian,” Lotor scoffed. “Slaves will be slaves.”

“That’s an ugly word.”

He realised too late the significance of her complexion amongst Mugglekind. “Ah, right. My apologies.”

She merely grunted in reply, her bunched curls bouncing at her ears as she pushed another spoonful between her lips. He leaned back to slot his wand into its sheath, and chanced a look down at the first-years. They were still raucous and much too loud. He’d have to take them to bed soon.

“Well, _are_ you?” The Snyde girl’s pressing voice drifted down the length of the table.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the Gunderson boy replied.

“A _half-blood._ ”

There was a pronounced ripple amongst their peers of scorn and whisperings. Pidge shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you ‘don’t _know_?’ You must be, otherwise you wouldn’t _be_ here.”

“I _mean_ ,” Pidge asserted, voice pointed. “I _don’t know_.”

“Your parents – they’re not… _Muggles,_ are they?”

The very suggestion sparked an outcry. Lotor stared curiously at the Gunderson child, willing him to speak, to say something – _anything_ – that might’ve offered an insight or cleared his name. He did nothing. Remained silent.

“Impossible!” his interrogator shrieked. “That’s actually impossible, you know that? As _if_ we have a _Muggle-born_ in Slytherin! There’s been a mistake.”

Lotor felt he’d heard enough.

“The Sorting Hat doesn’t make mistakes,” he offered, attracting the surprised stares of every first-year present. They seemed to have forgotten he was there.

The Snyde girl loured, the fierce sheen of her eyes matching the purple sky overhead perfectly. “And you would know?”

“It has made remarkably few errors of judgement over the many centuries it has been at work,” Lotor announced. “Also, are you really going to argue with an old sentient hat? That boy has been declared a Slytherin, so a Slytherin he is.”

“Mudbloods protecting Mudbloods.”

The shock of hearing such a _vile_ word could’ve very nearly inhibited his ability to function, much in the same way it had killed Zethrid, Ezor and Acxa’s conversation and utterly _floored_ them, but Lotor had more poise than that. He refused to fall foul to the whims of a smirking girl with a penchant for disgusting vernacular.

Smiling saccharinely, he retrieved his goblet and took a sip. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she drawled. “ _Mudblood_. I know exactly what you are and I think it’s a joke that you’re allowed in this House after what your father did. How you can still carry his family name is beyond me, Malfoy.”

“How dare you –” Zethrid leapt to her feet, eyes burning with all seven levels of Hell. Lotor silenced her immediately with the slightest flick of his hand.

“Please,” he requested sweetly. “Go on. What have you heard?”

“He’s a blood traitor!” the girl seethed. “Eloping with a Muggle-born. Disgraceful.”

Lotor laughed. “You remind me so much of my grandfather. It’s ironic, really, because I don’t recall the Snydes being included in the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

It was a low blow – anyone with a brain knew that the alleged author of the _Pure-Blood Directory_ , Cantankerus Nott, was a Purist fool who held the Ollivanders and Weasleys in extraordinarily high regard, alongside his contemporary, Minister Archer Evermonde – but Lotor suspected that he was dealing with a lowly girl. For a second, he thought she would stop. Her cheeks flushed furious red and her hands were balled into tight little fists of rage. But he knew he’d anticipated wrongly when she opened her mouth again.

“At least I don’t keep company with Scumsuckers!”

“ **Silencio**!”

Lotor hadn’t realised that Acxa had risen to her feet, or that she’d drawn her weapon, or that she’d even cast the Charm until he noticed the thin cylinder of her wand just over his head. It was as sharp and straight as her smile.

“I daresay, Ms Marmora,” he announced, “unsanctioned use of magic would permit the deduction of fifteen points from Slytherin.”

“But I think this time we’ll let it slide, don’t you?” she retorted in the same fancifully casual tone.

She was languid, bored, watching the Snyde girl mouth empty words and clutch at her throat desperately as though she couldn’t breathe. Lotor was just thankful that most of the teachers had gone to bed and that those who remained were too drunk or uncaring to notice.

“Oh, shut up,” Zethrid growled. “It’s only a Silencing Charm.”

“I’m just about ready to go to bed,” Ezor purred.

“So is everyone else,” Lotor said, pushing himself up to his feet unhurriedly. Though the ceiling’s galaxies pinwheeled through a dark mauve sky, he knew that it couldn’t yet be ten o’clock. “It’s almost curfew.”  

The first-years were notably subdued on their march down to the Dungeons. Whether it was from tiredness or the silencing of their vocal representative, Lotor wasn’t sure, but he wasted no time on taking a scenic detour through the castle and opted instead to shove them through the single stairway leading from the Entrance Hall to the basement one-by-one.

Pidge was the last in the procession.

“Hey, you. Gunderson.”

The boy stopped, hesitant and small. “Yes?”

“You understand what that word meant, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

 _Hmm. Surprising._ “And you know that she’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” His eyes were wide, face oddly pale with an astonishment Lotor couldn’t quite place. His expression reeked of fear. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not a Slytherin because of your blood, is what I mean,” he explained impatiently. “There’s something else the Hat saw in you – something more important.”

Pidge faces relaxed a bit, lines around his eyes loosening.

“Um…okay,” he muttered. There was something inexplicably _guilty_ about his demeanour. Lotor narrowed his eyes.

“And if _anyone_ ever uses language like that again,” he continued. “You come to me or Acxa. Not Professor Snape, not Head Boy or Girl, and _definitely not_ Prefect Rosier. Do you understand?”

When he didn’t respond immediately, Lotor leaned forward to snap his fingers in front of his face. The boy’s eyes, sharp brown and restless, focused on him. He was glaring now, but the daggers just bounced off the sixth-year like water on a freshly waxed car.

“Fine,” Pidge said eventually, reaching up to fiddle with his rounded spectacles. They looked much too large, like they were falling down his face, and reminded Lotor of someone he might’ve seen in the newspaper once upon a time.

“Good,” he sighed, roughly turning the boy away by his shoulder and pushing him downwards into the dark hallway. He was fed up with all these children, and wanted nothing more than to get into bed and forget that tonight had ever happened. With a voice darker than the moonlit halls and low enough so that only he could hear, Lotor breathed, “Because Merlin knows they won’t help you.”

 

* * *

` 1st September 1984 `

 

` Dear Matt, `

`          I’ve been Sorted into Slytherin, just like you! The Sorting Hat argued that I might be better suited for Ravenclaw or even Gryffindor, but I know where I belong. The view of the lake from the common room is fantastic. I can see the Giant Squid from my bedroom window too! Some of my classmates aren’t happy about me being in Slytherin because they think I’m a Muggle-born. I didn’t think that racism would be a problem after You-Know-Who was killed, but a girl called Merula said I was a Mudblood today. I know it sounds terrible but it’s actually quite funny to me. One of the Prefects Bewitched her so she can’t talk now. I don’t know how long the Charm will last, but I think it’s only temporary otherwise she might get in trouble. Can Prefects get in trouble? Did you ever get in trouble? I’ve made friends with a boy called Rowan. His parents own a tree farm that supplies wood for wands and brooms. He’s a bit intense but he’s also very funny. He’s a “serious intellectual who’s well on his way to becoming Head Boy.” We played Wizard’s Chess on the train and I won! He was surprised because he thought I wouldn’t know how to play, but I remembered all the strategies you taught me. I hope we’ll become good friends, just like you and Shiro. A third-year called Hunk showed me around Diagon Alley too and helped me buy my first wand. He was nice but I don’t think I’ll see much of him because he’s in Hufflepuff. His friend was not as nice but he stayed with me on the train for a bit. I’ve forgotten his name. He had a very strong accent. It was difficult to understand him. I’m very tired now so I should go to sleep. `

` Pidge `

` P.S. You were right. Professor McGonagall is terrifying. `

 

* * *

Shiro hadn’t realised where he was going until he was in the Astronomy Tower, surrounded by telescopes and a black, open sky. He had simply followed his feet and they had brought him here. There was a grim, subtle irony in the location, but it was fitting.

The stars reminded him of Matt.

It was here that they’d tried to uncover all the secrets of the universe. Astronomy lessons wouldn’t be the same without him. Shiro felt a lot like the stars in that moment, unable to take an active part in anything. They were all just looking on forever like they were being punished for something they did so long ago that neither of them now knew what it was.  

He’d wanted to say something, to confirm that _no, Matt was not insane_ and that he was his friend but he supposed that he wasn’t brave enough. Maybe the Sorting Hat had made a mistake by putting him in Gryffindor.

The thing with names was that they had power. Anyone could call Matthew Holt a maniac and, even if they’d never met him, it was suddenly like they had dominion over him. They could say whatever they liked and he could never retaliate because, not only was he _gone_ , it wasn’t so much what they called him, it was moreso what he’d answer to.

Shiro knew that people’s most private thoughts and opinions were not actually their own. They thought in terms of languages and images that they did not invent, but which were given to them by society. These thoughts and opinions were subsequently like names.

Shiro’s name wasn’t his own. It was given to him by his friends because it was easy for them to say.

Once upon a time, Matt’s name had been another word that had rolled off his tongue without thought. Now, he couldn’t even look at it, let alone hear it, without an abundance of sentiment attached to each letter. His name, which he’d played with so carelessly, had somehow become sacred to his lips. A name he wouldn’t throw around light-heartedly anymore or repeat without deep thought. Matthew Holt’s face had to remain nameless because those letters grouped together in that familiar form carried too much weight.

Shiro leaned back on his elbows. He lay slanted, gazing up at the sky. Beyond the dark silhouettes of the castle parapets, he could pick out his favourite constellations and planets.

“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded,” Matt had once told him. “And the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Sure,” Shiro had said. Muggle science was a bit beyond him.

“It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics,” he’d mused, twirling about the telescopes like a dancer. He’d stopped. Pointed at Shiro. Smiled. “ _You_ are all stardust.”

“Elaborate?”

“You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded because the elements – and I mean things like carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and life – weren’t created at the beginning of time.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to – _kaboom,_ ” he’d said, casting the Wand-Lighting Charm non-verbally just for the effect, “explode.” Shadows in his face, lights in his eyes. “Do you know what that means?”

Shiro had pondered for a couple of seconds, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “The stars died so that I could be here today?”

“ _Exactly_.”

“Thank you, stars.”

It all made him feel very small and made his problems seem pretty negligible. When he looked at the sky, Shiro realised he was looking at stars which were hundreds and thousands of years away from him and some of them didn’t exist anymore because their light had taken so long to get to him they were already dead or had collapsed into red dwarves.

The brightest ones were the prettiest. A hundred times brighter than the dimmest, he wondered vaguely if that meant they were a hundred times farther away from Earth.

“Wrong,” Matt’s voice echoed in his brain. “You boldly assume that all stars are intrinsically equally luminous, automatically making the near ones brighter than the far ones. Stars, however, come in a range of luminosities, spanning ten orders of magnitude ten powers of ten.”

Okay. So, the brightest stars were not necessarily the ones closest to Earth. Maybe the stars Shiro saw in the sky tonight were of the highly luminous variety, and they lay extraordinarily far away. If most of the stars he saw were highly luminous, then they must have been common throughout the galaxy.

“Wrong again. High-luminosity stars are the rarest. In any given volume of space, they’re outnumbered by low-luminosity stars a thousand to one. It’s the most prodigious energy output of high-luminosity stars that enables you to see them across such large volumes of space.”

Matt was so far away, yet Shiro could still see him clearly in his mind’s eye. Scrawny, freckled and full-faced. He looked older without his glasses.

Perhaps it wasn’t the stars that reminded him of Matt, but rather Matt who reminded him of stars.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft. the Weird Sisters (the band who played at the Yule Ball in Book Four, who may have attended Hogwarts in Bill Weasley's year), J.K. Rowling's younger sister, and mute!Muslim!Narti because headcanons
> 
> Also, how much star symbolism/imagery can I cram into one chapter?


	3. Incendio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning  
> This chapter contains underage smoking.
> 
> I've written a one-shot set in the same universe as this fic a year or so before the main action. If you're interested, follow the link! I hope to write more one-shots like this to develop the other characters's motivations and backstories.  
> [Sunday Bloody Sunday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046034)

“Shelliferous Drogodflikerii are known for their ability to imitate signatures. They are masters of forgery.”

At first, Lance had thought the illustrations in the book didn’t do the creature justice. He had been graffitiing Hunk’s copy when he’d found the diagrams and spent at least ten minutes laughing about it.   Upon having one sat in front of him, however, he realised they were completely accurate.

Small and bulbous, with a pot-belly and long, limp wings, the Shelliferous Drogodflikerous stared up at him from its seat on his inkpot with round, deep-set eyes. Every now and then, a slimy chameleon tongue would flick out from between its gummy lips and moisturise one of its nostrils, and he would hear Hunk heaving beside him, resisting the urge to vomit.

God, it was _hideous._ Lance thought its ugliness alone would have been enough to put Hunk off the snacks that had been left on the table, but he was still munching away on a handful of raisins without a care in the world. He had a stronger stomach than he thought.

“How do you pronounce its name again, Professor?” Lance asked, feigning innocence. Not only was it unsightly, its name sounded ridiculous too.

Silvanus Kettleburn, in all his one-and-a-half-legged, single-handed glory, was probably one of the hippest teachers of Hogwarts. The legends said he once unleashed an Engorged Ashwinder on the school, which promptly set the Great Hall on fire and led to Professor Herbert Beery’s untimely retirement. This wasn’t the _main_ reason as to why Lance had elected to take Care of Magical Creatures, but it definitely helped.

Unfortunately, his reputation surpassed him.

Professor Kettleburn cleared his throat but, much Lance’s disappointment, he didn’t repeat the creature’s name again. “Do pay attention, Mr McClain. It’s quite phonetic. Maybe opening your own book would help?”

A soft set of snickers rippled through the classroom and Lance muttered darkly, “I would if only I had a newer copy.”

 _Stupid Keith and his stupid hair and his stupid book._ He was still seething over their encounter at Flourish and Blotts and shot the back of his head a glare from across the classroom. The worst part was that the arsehole literally never acknowledged him. He hadn’t even apologised when Lance had called him out on his swindling! Bastard.

“You’re supposed to stroke the spine,” Hunk offered in between mouthfuls of what looked like dried apricots.

Lance ignored him and unclasped the belt around his book. As usual, it wouldn’t open. He strained his fingers and forced his thumb between its pages, huffing, and it suddenly bit him. He would later maintain that _no_ , he hadn’t yelped nor did he stick his thumb in his mouth like a baby to stop the bleeding. It had merely been a manly gasp, _thank you very much_. He did drop his book though, and watched as it slithered around on the floor between table legs, yapping and gurgling madly.

“Shit!”

“Twenty points from Ravenclaw!”

“Aw, Professor, come _on!_ ” Lance whined. “It bloody bit me!”

“I can’t abide swearing,” Professor Kettleburn retorted. “Could someone please catch that blasted book? I’m afraid my hand is occupied.” Sure enough, he cradled his own Shelliferous Drogodflikerous in his palm, close to his chest, where nibbled animatedly at his thumbnail.

“I’ve got it, Professor.” _Of course_ it was Keith who volunteered. He stood, unsheathing his wand and pointing it towards Lance’s book, which was currently trying to maul their teacher’s peg leg. “ **Accio** _._ ”

At once, the grumbling book whizzed up into the air as though pulled by an invisible string, leaping into its summoner’s waiting fingers. He even caught it one-handed, the show-off, and spent some time massaging its spine until it was crooning, before turning around to hand it back to Lance.

“You’re supposed to stroke the spine,” he said.

Lance seethed. “I knew that!”

Keith quirked an eyebrow. The book was struggling in his grip, mewling plaintively as he held it aloft. “It doesn’t seem to like you much.”

“Shut your puss, fannybaws.”

“Lance!” Hunk hissed reproachfully. “Language!”

“What?” Lance’s voice diminished to a fierce whisper. “Kettleburn doesn’t understand my Muggle slang.” 

“No, but I do,” Keith growled. He had a face like a skelped arse and forcefully dropped Lance’s book on the table before turning back around to sit down.

“Thank you!” Hunk said, a little too loudly, and the Ravenclaw groaned. He couldn’t _not_ mind his manners. “You’re so rude _._ ”

“He started it. Whose side are you on, here?”    

Hunk just rolled his eyes and, without another word, tuned back into the Professor’s speech on their subject matter for the lesson. Lance was barely listening – it was all hopelessly boring. He hadn’t thought the classes would have been like this. 

They were supposed to be outside, but autumn had rendered the weather miserable. Through the glass wall the classroom shared with Herbology Greenhouse One, he could clearly see the miserable grey skies and drizzle speckling the ceiling. High in the sky, too, he fancied he saw a Hippogriff or two racing through the clouds.

That would’ve been nice. _Flying_. Touching the sky like that. Lance thought of the upcoming Quidditch trials and his stomach twisted slightly. What he wouldn’t give to get on the team.

“Shelliferous Drogodflikerii are classified as Faeries,” Kettleburn continued. “Can anyone here list off the common traits of the Fey? Mr Weasley, perhaps?”

Lance frowned. Bill wasn’t in this class, was he? He glanced over at Keith’s table and, lo and behold, the redhead was sat there as though he’d been present from the very beginning, books and parchments out.

“When did he get here?” Lance whispered.

“I don’t know,” Hunk replied.

“No Faerie can handle iron or materials made from iron, such as steel,” Bill replied easily. “They are violently allergic to human household chemicals, are attracted to the colour green, and are repulsed by the colour red.”

“Very good. Ten points to Gryffindor!”

 _Ugh, he’s worse than Keith._ The classroom’s layout, with clustered quadruplet tables, made it easy for Lance to observe the creature’s reaction to different students based on their uniform. There was a Slytherin boy engaged in a tug-of-war for his tie whilst Keith’s Faerie was blowing raspberries at him, probably offended by the scarlet piping of his jumper.

The Shelliferous Drogodflikerous on Lance’s table, however, was quite apathetic, barely reacting when Shay offered up her canary yellow scarf.

“Don’t provoke it!” her twin brother, Rax, exclaimed, grabbing her wrist. “It might be dangerous.”

“It doesn’t seem to mind,” she chuckled. “Stop being so overdramatic.”

“Now,” Professor Kettleburn announced. “You’ll notice some apparatus on your desks. Today you are going to be making something that is _essential_ for luring, befriending, and appeasing the Fey.”

_Oh, I know this!_

“Faerie Porridge!” Lance blurted out.

“Exactly. Well done, McClain. Maybe you can tell me the ingredients and save your House a few points.”

“It’s just like normal porridge, right? Milk, oats, and sugar.”

“Not _quite_. Anyone else? Ah, yes, Mr Kogane?”

“A handful of raisins, dried fruit, or edible flowers are required,” Keith added, lowering his hand.

“Ugh, know-it-all,” Lance hissed, folding his arms. _But, where’s all the dried – oh._ He glared at Hunk, who had frozen after having just emptied a handful of sultanas into his mouth. His cheeks were bulging. “Really?”

“Sorry, I was hungry.”

“This is first lesson. We _just_ had breakfast.”

“At least we still have the flowers,” Shay pointed out brightly. It was kind of cute how optimistic she was. Lance could see why she and Hunk were friends. What he couldn’t see was how the hell she was related to Rax. He suddenly felt sorry for Hunk having to share a dorm with him.

“Well, that’s a relief,” the grumpy Hufflepuff sneered sarcastically.

“The recipe is on page thirty-six of Holly Black’s _Care and Feeding of Sprites_.” With that, Professor Kettleburn nodded to the class to begin their mixing and hobbled over to the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to regarding a clutch of Acromantulae eggs and an oversized field mushroom. I’ll be back at the end of the lesson to test your concoctions. _Don’t_ break anything.”

As soon as he had closed the door and was safely out of earshot, Lance very audibly took it upon himself to stop pretending to care.

“This is just glorified Potions! And I hate Potions.”

“Lance, stop whining and pass me the sugar.”

When it came to cooking or brewing of any kind, all work was deferred to Hunk. Whilst Shay fussed over their Shelliferous Drogodflickerous under the watchful eye of her brother, he started gathering and measuring the ingredients with the casual efficiency of a connoisseur. Lance just observed, lazily twirling his quill. _I should have ditched class and practised Flying or something._

“Aw, he’s so cute!” Shay gurgled. “We should give him a name.”

“How do you even know it’s a boy?” Rax muttered.

“Maybe we should ask?” She handed the Faerie her quill but all it really accomplished was copying all the notes in the margins of her textbook in the same cursive. “Interesting. Girl, perhaps?”

“You can’t just assume its gender based on its handwriting.”

“But it writes like me."

“Master of forgery!”

“Lance, this is _salt_ ,” Hunk moaned, his voice interrupting their sibling spat. “Now I have to start all over again.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Um, _hello?_ Violently allergic to human household chemicals? Do you want to kill it?”

Lance leaned forward on his elbows to get a better look at the Faerie. _Ew,_ it was digging Shay’s quill in between the folds of its skin. “Aye, it’s ugly.”

Shay thwacked him on the head with her fist. “Don’t say such things! You will hurt its feelings.”

“Why is everyone abusing me today!?”

“Do you really want us to answer that?” Hunk snickered. Lance scowled and watched as he took the time to measure out precisely one cup of milk, half a cup of oats, and a tablespoon of sugar (which he checked really was sugar once, twice, okay, _thrice_ by licking his finger and dipping it into the bowl a few times). “Does it say we need to add the flowers before or after we’ve heated the porridge?”

Rax studied the recipe intently. “Afterwards, otherwise they will catch fire.”

Hunk started fussing with the ingredients again and Lance wondered if Care of Magical Creatures really _was_ a “soft subject” like Nyma had said when he’d chosen it last year. If Hunk’s painstaking expression was anything to go by as he meticulously mixed it probably wasn’t. Lance didn’t mind that there weren’t many Ravenclaws in the class – they tended not to be a very hands-on bunch – it was nice socialising with different Houses. At least where Quidditch wasn’t concerned.

He remembered that Nyma would be at trials later and suddenly felt nauseous. He didn’t want her to see him fail.

“Lance, buddy, help us out?” Hunk asked. Lance stared at him and he must’ve mistaken his silence for reluctance because his smile turned rueful. “Please, oh great Charms master, heat the porridge.”

“Oh, aye. Right.” He could do that, no problem. Lance pulled his wand from the pocket of his trousers, the ruddy colour of the reed-wood complimenting the tanned skin of his fingers. “ **Incendio** _._ ”

“Lance, _no!_ ” Hunk screamed too late as flames burst forth from its tip and engulfed the desk, porridge and Shelliferous Drogodflickerous and books and all, in firelight. Shay gasped in fright as she and Rax fell back in their chairs simultaneously and landed in each other’s arms. The glass bowl in which Hunk had been mixing the milk and oats together shattered and blazing splinters shot into the air like comets. The whole class exploded into a frenzy.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Lance shrieked. “Wrong spell! Um, um, **Glacius**!”

The fire flickered under a thin, steady stream of white mist that flowed from the tip of his wand, but still raged across the countertop.

“Fuck!” he yelped. “ **Glacius Duo**!”

Hunk’s notes blackened and curled at the edges and his inkpot shattered. Blackness dribbled across the desk like an oil spill, fire snaking across its surface, suddenly hot and livid purple.

“ **Glacius Tria**."

There was a flash of blue and the sound of water boiling, solidifying, then cracking, and before Hunk could even blink, the entire desk had been swallowed by an iceberg. It glowed pale turquoise, its surface like a mirror in time through which he could see his textbooks in disarray and the incinerated corpse of their Faerie mid-jump.

Lance turned to look at the caster, though he had a horrible feeling he already knew who it was. Keith stood behind him, arm outstretched, wand steaming blue.  

“Are you alright?” He barely heard Rax murmuring to Shay over the rapidly heightening buzzing in his ears.

Oh, _hell fucking no_.

“Are you kidding me!?” Lance spat.

“What? I helped you.”

“Back off! I had everything under control.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

Lance was murderous. His vernacular was hastily degrading into the kind of rough Scottish that only a native would be able to understand. “You’re aye trying to do better than me!”

“Pure?” Keith snorted. His own accent was thickening too. “Maybe if ye weren’t so incompetent, I would nae have to.”

“Get tae _fuck_ , arsepiece!”

Before he could advance or get a good grip on the other’s tie – he was going to _throttle_ him, he _swore_ on his mum’s grave – Bill intervened, slotting himself between the two and pressing Lance’s chest with a flat palm. He felt a hand on his shoulder but didn’t even have to check to know it was Hunk, large, soothing, disapproving. Lance wanted to _scream_.

But the quick click of Professor Kettleburn’s wooden foot on the stone floor reminded him that fisticuffs would not go down well here. Lance’s stomach dropped. He didn’t know when he had returned.

“Well, boys,” he mused, voice thick with cordial wrath. He looked like he would have been clapping if he could. “That was highly amusing! I would congratulate you on your excellent Charming if my desk hadn’t fallen foul to it.” His eyes settled on the encased carcass on the Shelliferous Drogodflickerous, utterly cremated. “And judging by the _state_ of your _subject,_ McClain, you and your group have produced one of the most spectacularly abysmal mixtures of Faerie Porridge I have ever seen. Too bad I won’t have the chance to taste it.”

Lance flinched and flushed bright red. “I –”

“I’ll also be willing to ignore your nasty language in exchange for however many weeks’ worth of detention will teach you the proper incantation for the Boiling Spell so you never forget it again.”

He deflated. “Yes, Professor…”

“You can clean up this mess before you go. I’m sure a well-aimed Flipendo will do the trick. I trust you’ll at least get that right?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Garrett, Balmerans, help him. Unless you want to wait all day for your possessions to thaw. Class dismissed!”

Rax sighed deeply, eyes trailing over their rapidly dispersing classmates. “Nice going, Lance.”

Whilst her brother couldn’t seem to get enough of casting him dirty looks, Shay was much more sympathetic. “Don’t worry. We know it’s not your fault.”

“What’s gotten into you, lately?” Hunk asked. “You’ve been off all morning.”

“Sorry,” Lance sighed, shame seeping into his shoulders. “I’m just stressed.”

Hunk snorted. “Stressed? Term has only just started. Unless this morning’s news has gone to your head?”

The _Daily Prophet’s_ most recent story had detailed Katherine Holt’s disappearance from her family home a few days ago. Its circulation through the Great Hall that morning during breakfast had sparked a huge debate and no small amount of anxiety. If Rita Skeeter’s sensationalist stories held any truth, then her being missing might have hinted at a resurgence in Matthew Holt’s activities. There were rumours that he’d kidnapped her the night before the Hogwarts Express had departed from King’s Cross. Lance really hoped they weren’t true.

“No, I don’t care about that,” he moaned. “It’s Quidditch tryouts. They’re tonight.”

“Oh.” It was clear from Hunk’s tone that he’d completely forgotten about it. Which was fine – _really_ – he wasn’t a sports kind of guy.

“It’s just,” Lance continued. _God,_ he felt pathetic. “Keith’s been made Seeker for Gryffindor _again_ this year and I can’t afford to lose to him.”

Hunk groaned. “You’ve got to stop with this rivalry nonsense. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care.”

“I care!” the Ravenclaw snapped. He noticed Hunk flinch and immediately felt guilty. “Sorry. I just – I _really_ want to make the team this year. I’m going for the position of Seeker.”

He knew it was nonsense, but he revelled in the rivalry. Keith was so easy to dislike. An impudent, intense _dick_. So holier-than-thou, so _great at everything_ , _ugh_ …Hunk was staring at him.

“I thought Seekers were meant to be small and agile? You’re all…” He gestured to his entire body. “Gangly.”

Lance held a hand up to his heart, contorting his expression into something less serious and more playfully offended. “I can be agile!”

“I thought you’d want to be a Chaser. You know, in the thick of it?”

“Any position would be fine by me.”

Even though he was trying very, very hard not to sound desperate, Lance knew that Hunk had cottoned on as soon as he raised an eyebrow. He knew him too well.

“Now this – _this_ – is weird. Didn’t you say you were the best the team could get?”

Their conversation was rapidly encroaching the real crux of the issue and Lance was beginning to sweat.

“Well, aye…” he murmured, trailing off. He knew there was no way he’d be able to escape the oncoming explanation and took a deep breath to gear himself up. The words emerged from his mouth slowly. “But, Allura’s the Captain now and I doubt she’ll pick me for the team.”

Hunk whipped his head around _fast._ “Allura Albright?”

“Aye.”

It was no secret that he was infatuated with her and had been ever since he’d seen her fly. She was an older girl and she was _cool._ Every time he looked at her he felt like he’d touched his tongue to the tip of a battery. He’d watch her in the common room and would reduce to nothing but zing and tingle. After a while, the tingle would turn to electricity, and when he’d speak to her, his whole body would amp to a level where technically he should have been dead.

Lance had nothing in common with a girl like Allura, but a boy didn’t think straight when he was that close to electrocution.

“She _hates_ you.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“You stole her knickers in First Year.”

“It was a funny prank!” Lance’s face split into a wide grin at the memory. “Accio panties! Good, right?”

Hunk shook his head. “It was _weird_.”

“ _You’re_ weird!”

“Less arguing, more chipping!” Rax interjected coldly. He was pulling at the cover of his textbook as it gurgled and wriggled weakly, trying to free itself from its icy prison. Lance wondered absently how it had survived before realising that it had never really been alive in the first place.

“You’ll do fine,” Hunk said after a few moments of silence.

“I hope so. We’re alright, aren’t we?”

Hunk smiled softly. “Yes, Lance. We’re alright.”

“Good.”

Even in the midst of grappling with the ridiculously stubborn glacier – seriously, did Keith get a kick out of showing off his impossibly powerful Charming or did he genuinely struggle with exerting self-control? Arsehole – Lance knew Hunk wouldn’t able to stay angry with him. Rax would no doubt complain about his ineptitude in the dorm later until the sun came up, but he knew Hunk would sooner forgive him for his grouchiness than agree.

“Are you still down for tomorrow night?” he asked after managing to unearth his satchel.

“Absolutely,” Lance scoffed. “Where did you leave the map?”

“In the Artefact Room, third floor.”

“Wicked. Right!” He clapped his hands together. “Stand back, guys. I’ve got it from here.”

“Are you sure?” Rax sneered, arms crossed haughtily. “What if you mess it up again?”

“I won’t,” Lance replied coolly. “Now get out of the way. You want to get Jinxed?” He thought he might argue again, but Rax was conflict-avoidant by nature – a true Hufflepuff. He stepped away from the table. “ **Flipendo**!”

The iceberg exploded, propelled backwards with a force so violent that it smashed into the blackboard and crumpled to the floor as though wounded. Great chunks of ice ricocheted off the wall and slid across the floor, spinning wildly, whilst soggy, charred pages that had once constituted Hunk’s textbook slapped wetly against the ceiling. Lance winced at the high-pitched whine his book emitted upon being trapped underneath the dilapidated table, now thankfully unfrozen, but also squashed and very unhappy.

“Bit strong there, buddy,” Hunk said, clapping a hand against his shoulder.

Lance chuckled nervously, “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you can make it up to me by doing my Defence Against the Dark Arts homework for me?”

The Ravenclaw groaned but didn’t complain. It was least he could do after putting his friend through so much trouble.

 

* * *

The dungeons were, without a doubt, the worst part of the castle. Its green lights were ghoulish, more reminiscent of marsh mud, algae, and puzzlegrass, than the lovely sweet peas and tropical birds that Allura would more readily associate with its natural hue. The whole place reeked of stagnant water and questionable bioethics, and the walls oozed and rippled horribly, hypnotically, under the weight of the lake. The thought of being entirely surrounded by water was not at all comforting.

Allura much preferred the open sky, the feeling of the wind. People often talked of the attraction of the abyss, _l’appel du vid_. They didn’t know that there was also an abyss above.

She suddenly envied her classmate, Chester Davies, then, whereas she hadn’t before. The two of them had a free period this morning and she would have been studying if it weren’t for Peeves and his incessant need to cause trouble. As Prefects, it was now part of their responsibility to mollify him but everyone knew that the damned poltergeist didn’t listen to anyone except the Bloody Baron.

Hence, dungeons.

Chester was probably still struggling to keep him from violating Rowena Ravenclaw’s statue. Knowing him, he wouldn’t be having any luck. Allura upped her pace, her skirt swishing around her knees slightly more aggressively than before. As little as she wanted to hasten her encounter with supernatural phenomena, what kind of incompetence would it be, leaving dangerous fiends alone to commit mischief?

She was no stranger to ghosts. The village of Hogsmeade had experienced its fair share of hauntings since she’s moved there to live with her godfather and Hogswart was full of them. Dead souls and everything they left behind – the echoes. It was like walking through a forest where sound could echo forever. Voices, echoing, just bouncing back and forth, getting smaller and smaller, but never entirely disappearing. Like a part of someone was still calling out, long after they were gone. The idea offered solace, but also sadness.

Allura suddenly stopped. She could hear screaming.

It was muffled, yet wholesome, echoing down the corridor as though alive. _Corporeal. Not a ghost._ She started sprinting.

“Hello?” she yelled, reaching into the pocket of her robes to extract her wand.

The Potions classroom was empty – upon brief inspection, not even Professor Snape was present, which was slightly unusual. He could often be found skulking around the lower levels if he wasn’t with Headmaster Dumbledore. She noted a cauldron on the desk nearest to the door which looked as though it had been cleaved in two.

Dim bursts of blue light seeped out from under a bolted wooden door at the other end of the hallway intermittently, whilst the door itself rattled. Something was trying to get out. Wand raised in front of her, Allura advanced slowly.

“Who’s there?”

A choked, reedy voice replied, “Hello!? Please, help us!”

For a brief second, Allura contemplated whether it could be a joke. She wouldn’t put it past the dungeon ghosts to get a kick out of her panic. But the insistent yelps of what she could only assume were children won out.

“Hold on, please!” She grabbed the handle and pulled will all her might, but it was fruitless. The door was wedged shut and, considering her Unlocking Charm didn’t work, magically sealed. “I can’t open the door!”

“We……–ocked in!” The response was muted and breathless. Allura could barely hear it.

“Pardon?”

“Mer–……us – in!”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying!”

“Help!”

There was nothing else for it. Allura took a few hurried steps back and yelled, “stand away from the door!” though she was fairly certain that whoever was on the other side wouldn’t catch it.

“ **Bombarda**!”

The door exploded off its hinges, splinters whizzing through the air like missiles. The stone archway cracked and rumbled, yet somehow remained standing firm. Firm enough for Allura to kick the remaining planks of wood out of the way and cross the storeroom’s threshold. The putrid smell of swamp water and decay immediately permeated her nostrils and she winced, holding a hand up to her nose. It was impossibly dark, but she was just able to make out two small human shapes illuminated by the light from the corridor, both writhing and gasping.

A tiny voice uttered, “ **Lumos** ” and there was a fleeting flash of blue light. Two boys struggled weakly against a Devil’s Snare, its slimy tendrils snaking their way all around their limbs and faces, half-covering their mouths. Their robes had been ripped to shreds and were weighed down on their frames with mud and moisture. Their eyes were blown wide, full of terror. Allura nearly shrieked.

“Gulping gargoyles! What are you doing!? Get away from that Devil’s Snare. You’re scaring it!”

The boy who had cast the Wand-Lighting Charm managed to stretch his face far away enough from the Snare’s tentacles to splutter, “ _I’m_ scaring _it_?”

“Stop wriggling!”

It wasn’t light enough for her to see if they’d obeyed her command or not. Allura was suddenly glad she had decided to put her hair up in a bun for the day upon feeling a cold tentacle slither along the back of her neck, curiously nosing at her shoulders. It felt disgusting, but she held her ground, remaining stoic and motionless. The Snare couldn’t get far because she still stood in the outline of the doorway – she felt it recoil, no doubt averse to the light from the corridor behind her. Once it had retracted far enough, Allura raised her wand again.

“ **Lumos Solem**.”

A brilliant yellow sunbeam burst from its tip, arching across the room like a radiant rainbow. The Devil’s Snare, expectedly, shrunk away to the furthest recesses, shrivelling and hissing. Upon being released, the two boys collapsed forwards onto the floor hands first, choking for air and crawling hurriedly towards the door. Judging by the colour of their lapels, Allura guessed they were Slytherins.

“You saved our lives!” the taller of the two exclaimed once they were safe, in the hallway, and Allura had barricaded the storeroom with the remains of its door. He was rubbing at his lips with the back of his hands. Some mushy grey residue came away and he grimaced. “Thank you, Professor…?”

She resisted the urge giggle. “I’m Allura. I’m not a Professor. I’m just a Prefect.”

“What was that thing?” the other asked impetuously. His glasses were horrifically smudged but he didn’t even seem to notice, instead favouring his wand, which looked like it had been shoved up a troll’s nose.

Allura stared at them, absolutely incredulous. “What do you mean ‘what was that thing?’ Don’t you know _anything_? Are you stupid?”

“How am I supposed to know!?” The small boy jumped to his feet, brown eyes flashing. He looked ridiculous, really, yet Allura felt she’d seen him somewhere before.

“You used the correct Charm on it,” she retorted crossly.

“The Wand-Lighting Charm? That’s the only one we’ve learned so far and it was incredibly dark in there…”

“It was a good guess. That was a Devil’s Snare,” Allura explained. “A highly dangerous plant that suffocates anything that touches it, but they’re sensitive to light.” It was tempting to take pity on the boys. They were clearly only first-years but Allura realised her adherence to school rules and crossed her arms tightly. “Now, _what_ were you doing in there? The storerooms not to be used without supervision. I ought to report you to your Head of House. This calls for a massive point reduction too.”

“Wait!” The dark-skinned boy’s eyes widened. “Please, we can explain –”

“I’ll need your names,” Allura interrupted.

The two boys exchanged an anxious look. It was the smaller one who answered. “My name’s Pidge Gunderson, and this is Rowan Khanna. Honestly, we do have an excuse.”

Allura’s arms dropped to her hips. She _knew_ she’d recognised him! “Ah, you’re the one everyone’s been talking about. The Muggle-born Slytherin. I remember you from the Sorting Ceremony.”

Pidge’s jaw set. His eyes gave the impression he was inviting a challenge. “Yes, that’s me.”

“What’s your excuse, Pidge? How did you end up there?”

“Merula Snyde locked us inside.”

“That’s quite a bold accusation,” Allura said, a frown playing on the corners of her lips. It wasn’t entirely unfounded though. The door had indeed been magically sealed from the outside. “And Merula’s a first-year?”

“Yes, like us.”

“Why would she lock you inside a storeroom with a Devil’s Snare?”

“She’s a bully!” Rowan quipped. “She broke Pidge’s cauldron!”

Allura blinked at him. “She did? How?”

Pidge sighed heavily. “We had Potions this morning and she sabotaged my mixture so it imploded. Professor Snape deducted points from Slytherin and Prefect Rosier said I had to earn them back. Merula then sent me a fake letter which we thought was from Snape asking me to come to this storeroom so I could help him and get some House points.”

It all sounded very far-fetched and convoluted to Allura.

“Do you have proof of this?” she asked hesitantly.

Pidge dug around in the pockets of his robes and extracted a grimy, folded piece of parchment. It looked damp, with smudgy ink but, even without reading it, Allura could still see the Potions Master’s signature scrawled clearly across the bottom. She took it anyway.

 

` Gunderson, `

` I have discovered evidence that your potion may have indeed been tampered with. While it does not prove your innocence, it does cast some doubt on my belief that you are hopelessly incompetent. Bring me a jar of Pickled Slugs from Potions Storeroom No. 3, and I will consider restoring your House points. `

` Snape `

 

Allura stared at the sign-off for a good few seconds. It looked perfectly legitimate to her.

“I want to help, but this alone won’t be sufficient,” she said finally, handing the letter back. “I would suggest showing this to Professor Snape himself, though I doubt he will be happy you went into his storeroom without consulting him in person.”

“Rosier told us to, though,” Rowan moaned.

“And Rosier is not a Potions Master. Come with me. I’ll escort you back to your common room.”

“Our first Flying lesson is soon,” Pidge said.

“Have you seen the state of yourselves?” Allura scoffed. “You’ll want to do something about your robes before you try getting on broom lest you fall to your death. Also, you smell like stinkweed.”

The colour drained from their faces. She didn’t think it was possible for Pidge to look any paler than he was but somehow he did, freckles flickering boldly on his cheeks. Even though she now knew his name, she still couldn’t shake that she knew him from somewhere else. She supposed he just had one of those faces. They started walking.

“What wood is your wand made from?” Rowan asked suddenly. Allura realised that she had yet to sheath it and that is was still nestled between her fingers, its fuchsia hue matching perfectly with both her nail polish and lipstick. He was staring at it, obviously enamoured. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”

“Oh. It’s…um, it was my father’s. Have you heard of umgoloty?”

Rowan glanced at her disbelievingly. “Pink ivory? But that’s so rare! The tree only grows in South Africa.”

She chuckled. “Yes, you’re right. Your family must deal in wandwood for you to be so knowledgeable.”

“And you must be an Albright!” the Slytherin boy exclaimed excitedly. “They’re the only family in Britain to own wands like that. They’re very powerful.” He suddenly scowled. “I didn’t realise they were still extant after the war.”

Allura’s face fell. “I’m the last one in Britain. My father,” she hesitated, “was Alfor Albright.”

“Oh,” Pidge breathed quietly, the low volume of his voice reflecting the drop in the atmosphere. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” she said softly. She had come to terms with it herself. Grief was simply the price she paid for love.

Allura turned slightly as she walked to peer at Pidge out of the corner of her eye. She couldn’t think of any plausible reason as to how he’d know anything about it, unless someone had mentioned it in passing. It wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in textbooks _._ How often were the casualties of the war discussed amongst students? Never, if one excluded James and Lily Potter. So, the boy knew a fair bit.

But she wasn’t prepared to waste time probing his knowledge of the wizarding world. Not if it meant she’d have to descend deeper into the bowels of the castle. They stopped at the staircase that would take them down to the dungeons’ lower levels. It took a few seconds for the boys to catch up and she remembered their legs and strides weren’t as long as hers yet. Seldom boys’ were, even at fifteen.

“I’d recommend speaking to Lotor if you can’t find Professor Snape,” Allura said, trying to keep the venom out of her voice when she mentioned his name. “You know who I’m talking about? Long, blond hair, basically a diva, generally insufferable…?”

Pidge nodded. “Yes, I’ve met him.”

“Of all the Slytherins he’s probably the least prejudiced and, unfortunately, most tolerable.” It would’ve been easy to slander his name in the wake of first-years, Allura reminded herself they were also members of Slytherin and likely didn’t understand inter-House Quidditch politics just yet. “You two should probably hurry if you want to make it in time for your Flying lesson. I’ll let Madame Hooch know you were helping me with Prefect business.”

Pidge nodded brusquely and Rowan even bowed. “Thank you, Allura.”

She remembered almost too late the purpose of her location and just about managed to hook her nails into the smaller one’s hood before he disappeared into the stairwell.  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Bloody Baron anywhere down here, have you?”

 

* * *

`Boggarts`

~~` Lance McCl - shit` ~~

` Hunk Garrett `

 

` A Boggart is a shape-shifting creature that will assume the form of whatever most frightens the person who encounters it. Nobody knows what a Boggart looks like ~~except me~~ if nobody is there to see it, although it continues to exist, usually giving off evidence of its presence by rattling, shaking or scratching the object in which it is hiding. Boggarts particularly like confined spaces, but may also be found lurking in woods and around shadowy corners ~~and in my house~~. `

` The more generally fearful a person is, the more susceptible they will be to Boggarts. ~~I, for one, am a massive pussy and am therefore very susceptible.~~ Muggles, too, feel their presence and may even glimpse them, although they seem less capable of seeing them plainly and are usually easily convinced that the Boggart was a figment of their imagination. `

` Like a poltergeist, a Boggart is not and never has truly been alive. It is one of the strange non-beings that populate the magical world, for which there is no equivalent in the Muggle realm ~~although one does live in my very Muggle house.~~ Boggarts can be made to disappear, but more Boggarts will inevitably rise to take their place. Like poltergeists and the more sinister Dementors, they seem to be generated and sustained by human emotions ~~which is why they are repulsed by the likes of Keith Kogane~~. `

` The spell that defeats a Boggart can be tricky because it involves making the creature into a figure of fun so that fear can be dispelled in amusement. ~~Lance McClain is all about having fun so he is, undoubtedly, the best at tackling Boggarts and should definitely be commended for his expertise next lesson.~~ If the caster is able to laugh aloud at the Boggart, it will disappear at once. The incantation is “Riddikulus” and the intention is to force the Boggart to assume a less threatening and hopefully more comical form. `

` Famous Boggarts include: `

` - the Old Boggle of Canterbury (believed by local Muggles to be a mad, cannibalistic hermit that lived in a cave; in reality, a particularly small Boggart that had learnt how to make the most of echoes) `

` - the Bludgeoning Boggart of Old London Town (a Boggart that had taken on the form of a murderous thug that prowled the back streets of nineteenth-century London, but which could be reduced to a hamster with one simple incantation) `

` - the Screaming Bogey of Strathtully (a Scottish Boggart that had fed on the fears of local Muggles to the point that it had become an elephantine black shadow with glowing white eyes, but which Lyall Lupin of the Ministry of Magic eventually trapped in a matchbox) `

` - ~~my nana (a vicious creature whom I live with; she enjoys overfeeding teenage boys and smells like raw fish in coconut cream and has yet to be detained. Legend says Lance McClain took her on empty-handed and won. He’s just that amazing at duelling.)~~ `

 

* * *

The late afternoon sun pooled in the Clocktower Courtyard, casting long shadows in the cloister’s nooks. The cobblestones glittered greyly, still wet from their ablution via rainstorm earlier that day, and the fountain gurgled. Petrichor-scent permeated the air, faint yet persistent. The entire scene gave the impression of tepidity, but it was barely lukewarm. Keith pulled his scarf tighter around his neck.

“I thought you’d be at practice,” Myron said to him, leaning artfully against the frame of one of the archways in an effort to look cool. “Congratulations, by the way, though we all knew you’d get it.”

“No, Ravenclaw’s got the pitch tonight.” The thought made him scowl because he could only think of Lance McClain and his stupid thanklessness.

“Where’s Bill?” Donaghan asked.

“Studying, probably,” Kirley replied, somewhat disparagingly. “You know what he’s like.”

“Can we get this over with?” Keith grumbled. “I’m freezing.”

Donaghan muttered out a string of words composed mostly of “alright” and “‘ang on eur minute,” his thick Yorkshire accent dribbling through the air like marshwater as he rootled around in his pockets. Myron cast a wary glance over his shoulder into the courtyard whilst Kirley stared down the cloister’s sheltered corridor suspiciously. The four teens were well-hidden from prying eyes, but it wouldn’t take long for someone to see them if they came around the corner.

“I think the coast is clear,” Myron announced after a few seconds of scrutinising the foundation and confirmed that its surrounding area was, indeed, vacant.

“Grand,” Donaghan said, pulling four squashed cigarettes from his trousers. “Nicked a few of these from my parents before we left home.”

Keith gingerly took one from his friend’s outstretched hand. Its middle had been bent so it drooped in its grasp. It also felt soggy.

“Have you ever tried it?” Myron asked, and he shook his head. “I have.”

Of course. Myron had tried everything. He was a self-proclaimed rocker at almost-fourteen years, vanishing into bathrooms for minutes at a time to fix his hair and dressing in tight Muggle clothing like Rick from _The Young Ones_. It was hard to say whether he’d dressed and behaved like a rock star from the beginning or if he had assumed his role so well that he couldn’t even give it up in his spare time.

“What was it like?” Kirley asked, eyes wide. He was easily the softest out of them, a posh boy from down south.

Myron wrinkled his nose. “It was alright.” He reached over when Keith popped his cigarette between his lips, took it out, and swivelled it around. “Wrong way, barmpot. The orange bit goes in your mouth.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t you have to save your lungs?” Kirley sounded nervous. “You’re a sportsman.”

Keith shrugged and lightly tapped the tip of his wand to the end of his cigarette. “ **Incendio**.”

The first drag tasted like his dad’s house and he choked on the memory. Myron clapped his back, right between his shoulders blades, and everyone snickered. Even Keith. His eyes were watering from a combination of the burning nicotine in his lungs, the sweet and acrid sheen on his tongue, and the sight of his father amidst the silver smoke.

He was sat in his favourite armchair, by the window, elbow resting casually on its sill. His eyes were dark and searching, roaming over Glasgow’s skyline. He lifted a cigarette to his lips.

He’d always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction from smoking was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. He’d said he loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between his fingers. That was all well and good but there was nothing quite like actually _smoking, and_ _no, Keith, you can’t try. You’re too young…_

“A bitch always smokes,” his dad said in Japanese before taking another drag. He turned slowly in his seat, he smiled, and Keith was suddenly a child again. “A bitch is the opposite of a whore. A bitch doesn’t need anybody. Or she wants people to think she doesn’t need anybody. And she smokes to prove it.”

Another drag.

Keith didn’t cough this time. The memory melted away with the smoke.

“How do you hold it?” Kirley asked. He was fussing with his fingers, reluctant to put them too close to the flame.

“My mam does this,” Donaghan said and he slotted his cigarette into the cleft of his index and middle finger. “Says it’s classy.”

It wasn’t, not on him, because his hands were too large and he wasn’t a woman. He didn’t have the same guile as the likes of Deborah Kerr in her black corset dress casually striking a light on her Zippo beside Cary Grant in his bowtie and cufflinks.

“You’ve got to flick it too,” Myron quipped around his filter. “To get rid of the ash.” He quickly thumbed the end of his cigarette, releasing a clump of ash.

“Ow! Shit,” Kirley exclaimed. In his attempt to do the same, his fingers had brushed the fire, prompting a small spray of orange sparks to burst forth.

Keith grinned at him. “Daft eejit.”

He supposed he understood the allure behind the tobacco a bit better now that he’d tried it. It was warm, it made his lungs feel heavy and grey, made his head swim. It felt as intimate as he could become with fire without immediate excruciation. He fancied himself an embodiment of Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it home. He smoked to capture the power of the sun, to pacify Hell, to identify with the primordial spark. It wasn’t the tobacco or the nicotine he was after anymore as he reached the end, but the fire.

“Someone’s coming!” Donaghan yelped.

All four of them suddenly started fumbling to put out their fires. Keith forgot that there wasn’t an ashtray and wasted time searching fruitlessly for one before almost, stupidly, shoving the nub of his cigarette into his robes. Myron slapped his hand before he could do such a thing and the still-smoking filter fell to the floor. Keith found himself pulled downwards into a crouch, hidden from view by the low walls of the cloister.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Ugh, it’s just some Slytherins.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No.” Donaghan leapt up to sit on the stone ledge. “They look like first-years.”

“Fuck, man,” Myron hissed, glaring at his discarded cigarette butt. “I wasn’t finished.”

“It looks finished to me,” Keith muttered. The air suddenly smelled bitter and his tongue tasted of cinders.

“Are they playing Gobstones?” Kirley sniggered. Both he and Donaghan were staring at the first-years. “Nerds.”

“Oh, shit. Is that the Gunderson kid?”

“I think it is.”

Keith pushed between the two of them. “Let me see.” Sure enough, Pidge Gunderson, the same boy from the Sorting Ceremony was sat cross-legged in the courtyard opposite another boy he didn’t recognise. He was wearing oversized green-trimmed robes that pooled about his figure like a blanket. Neither of the two boys seemed to mind that the floor was wet. They were far too interested in their game to notice.

Myron’s face stretched into a wicked grin. “You know what I’m thinking, lads?”

“What, Wagtail?” Kirley replied, eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I think I know,” Donaghan drawled devilishly. Keith reckoned he did too but didn’t say anything. He hoped he was wrong.

“Let’s mess with ‘em.”

Schoolboys were a merciless race, he knew from experience. But his friends were not the kind of mean-spirited, pugnacious bullies propelled by cowardice. They were just delinquents, harmless pranksters, or so he thought. Besides, the age-old Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry knew no non-combatants.

“Oi, laddies!” Myron hollered. “Nice marbles!”

The two boys glanced up, momentarily startled. Their faces soon twisted into expressions of confusion.

“That was shit,” Keith moaned. “I’m not sticking around here if that’s the best you can do.”

“Like you could do any better.”

“Snape called!” Donaghan hooted. “He wants his curtains back!”

Keith almost sniggered at that one, but the real issue came from the Slytherins not quite understanding it. Pidge inspected his robes briefly and shrugged at his classmate.

Kirley stepped up to the mark, yelling, “Slytherin, eh? You were supposed to end up in Hufflepuff, but your daddy rigged the Sorting Hat so you wouldn’t shame your ancestors!”

Okay, _that one_ was funny, if a little long-winded.

“Who dressed you this morning? A house-elf?” Keith shouted.

Myron barked with laughter and started clapping. “Good one, Kogane!”

They were so busy congratulating each other on their stellar insults that none of them realised that Pidge had started to approach until he was still in the corridor, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. Looking at him, Keith thought it was entirely plausible that he’d been dressed by a house-elf that morning. His robes looked to have quadrupled in size. Either a Transfiguration had gone wrong or he was wearing someone else’s clothes.

“Do you have something to say to me?” he asked, chin raised yet voice small.

It was Myron who stepped forward. “Look at that, boys,” he crooned. “The little snake’s rearing its ugly head. Unfortunately, I don’t speak serpent.”

“The term you’re looking for is Parseltongue,” Pidge said stiffly.

Keith exchanged a bewildered glance with Donaghan.

“What?” Myron choked.  

“What you’re trying to say is that you’re not a Parselmouth,” Pidge continued.

“He’s right, you know,” Kirley interjected.

“Shut up, McCormack,” Myron hissed over his shoulder. “You smarmy shit –”

“Wagtail, don’t,” Donaghan warned, stepping forward and laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“You guys _stink_ ,” Pidge suddenly exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. The expression on his face was enough to send Keith into a sputtering set of chuckles. He couldn’t believe the sheer fucking gall of this kid. Sizing up a group of Gryffindor third-years and deciding – _sure, I’d like to pick a fight today._ Myron, on the other hand, was not impressed.

He shook away Donaghan’s hand fiercely and, before anyone could blink, he’d drawn his wand.

“Say that again, you fucking twonk. I’ll Hex you.”

“Myron –” Kirley started apprehensively.

“Chuff off, McCormack!”

The situation had escalated far more than he’d expected so Keith didn’t waste any time with niceties. “Wagtail, I swear to God,” he snarled, cleanly stepping around a now very uneasy Donaghan and grabbing Myron’s wrist. “Put that thing _down_.”

He came face to face with stormy brown eyes. “Or what? You gonna tell on me?”

Keith considered this for a moment. “Yes?”

Myron snorted. “Forgot you were mates with Shiro.”

“I’ll tell and you’ll get detention.” It was a weak defence, but it’d probably work. Myron wasn’t as hard as he thought he was."

“You’d actually _tell_? Keith, what the hell –”

“You threatened to Hex him. He’s just a kid.”

Myron blinked at him. Then he averted his gaze back to where Pidge was standing, pale and perplexed yet stoic. Keith saw a flicker of himself behind his round, smudged glasses, and at once tightened his grip on Myron’s arm. Slowly, he lowered his wand.

“ _Only_ because you’re a first-year and I don’t want to get in trouble,” Myron muttered sullenly, pulling his wrist out of Keith’s grip. “Let’s go, guys. It’s freezing out here.”

Keith released a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. It tasted unpleasant and hot, and he was thankful for the chill in the air. He was more than happy to leave, but not before kicking the cigarette butts into a nearby drain where he was sure Mrs Norris wouldn’t be able to dig them out. Too bad he didn’t know any Vanishing Spells yet. Myron, Donaghan and Kirley were at the other end of the corridor by the time he was done.

“Wait a minute.” Pidge’s voice surprised Keith enough that he almost stumbled on his way back to his friends. He’d assumed that the boy would’ve scarpered at the first chance he could get, but he was still there, half-hidden by shadow, finger raised to his lips and brows furrowed as though he were deep in thought. “Who…who were you going to report him to?”

“What?”

“You said you were going to report him and he mentioned a name.”

“I…I was joking?” he mumbled. “He probably wasn’t going to Hex you. I’m not going to tell on him.”

“No, I know. Just – was there a name he mentioned or not? Did he say something about Shiro?”

Keith stared at Pidge long and hard. His brain was spinning like a clock on overdrive. He couldn’t think of any plausible reason as to why he was being asked this question. “Yes. Why?”

Pidge’s expression was totally unreadable to him. “As in Shiro, Prefect of Gryffindor?”

“He’s Head Boy. Why?”

There was a flash in the child’s eyes, hotter than flame and dark like sin. Keith didn’t like it. “I need to talk to him.”

“Again, why?”

Pidge glared at him. “That’s none of your business. Where can I find him?”

 _The fucking cheek._ It wasn’t that he was protective – Shiro could handle himself, obviously – but it was the way he looked like he was planning something. The crinkle of his mouth, halfway between a smirk and a scowl; he knew snakes were dangerous when they were planning things.

“I don’t see why I should tell you,” Keith said, crossing his arms. “Doesn’t Slytherin have its own Head Boy?”

“He plays Quidditch, right?” Pidge’s reply was short and sharp, so much so that Keith wondered whether he’d even heard his question

He didn’t really have time to think before he blurted out a confused, “Yes?”

“Great. Thanks.”

And with that, Pidge was _gone_. He had turned on his heel faster than Keith could retaliate and flounced off across the courtyard, back to his friend and his Gobstones, robes whipping about his ankles like smoke. The speed at which he was going made it seem like he had evaporated. Keith could only frown. Shiro _was_ kind of famous around the school as an athlete but he couldn’t fathom why a first-year from another House would be remotely interested in him. None of it made sense.

“What was that all about?” Kirley asked when Keith eventually dragged himself over to where his dormmates were waiting.

“I have no idea.”


	4. Revelio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very long chapter - a lot happens! There is some mild terror near the end. 
> 
> Chapter Five is going to take a while to be published. There will be a small time-skip. Until then, I'm working on two one-shots (focusing on platonic Heith & Pance) that'll immediately follow the events of this chapter.

Shiro hadn’t slept. When his teammates had found him in the common room, sat in front of the fireplace with his hands clenched, they’d just assumed he was characteristically eager to get to the Quidditch pitch and start practice.

They’d been wrong.

Some kind of insomnia had taken hold of him last night, something ugly and warped that had him waking every hour and thinking to himself that he had not been sleeping at all. Shiro’s brain had raced, sampling the world, touching it everywhere, refusing to settle, refusing to join the collective nod. He’d discovered quickly that the night was the hardest time to be alive and that three a.m. was the loneliest hour.

Yesterday, Samuel and Colleen Holt had come to Hogwarts to speak with Dumbledore about their youngest child and how she had gone missing. He’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office along with Slytherin’s Head Boy and Girl to discuss the issue and it was currently taking all of Shiro’s energy to push their prying, crying faces from his mind.

There had been questions on Katie’s location, her wellbeing, why she had left and whether Matt had been the mastermind behind it all. _Had he sold their daughter to the Dark Lord’s followers?_ Shiro refused to believe so but it had been too much to admit aloud, not when the evidence had been right there in front of him. _All this time…? Was it all true?_

In an effort to hide the heat behind his eyes from a suspicious Keith, Shiro walked quickly ahead of the team, following the path across the grounds northwards and towards the pitch. With his red jersey robes billowing out behind him, his clutched his broom like it was the only real thing in a fake world. He was unpleasantly surprised at his own restlessness after a sleepless night but hoped that flying would work out some of his anxieties from the previous day. It was good to be outside.

He couldn’t say the same for the rest of his team. None of them were particularly happy about being up so early, but they had an important match in six weeks and two new players meant there was a lot of work to be done and at least they had breakfast to look forward to. _Always fly on an empty stomach._ Their complaints, completely viable, were empty and in jest, though they did make him wonder about the millions of people who longed for immortality yet didn’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy afternoon. They wouldn’t have been doing anything else this morning, besides sleeping, of course.

The sunrise was grey and gold and cold all at once, and made Shiro shiver. He thought of Danmari, warm and curled up on his pillow in the dorm and felt a twinge of jealousy. Cats led such simple lives.

“What time is it?” someone yawned to his left.

“Almost seven,” Keith replied. He was directly behind Shiro, walking with his classmate Ashley Sanders. She’d been chosen as a new Chaser alongside second-year Hamish Frater who was, no doubt, straggling behind with a Shooting Star broom that was too tall for him.

It was rare for second-years to be picked for the Quidditch team – they were just too inexperienced – but he’d chosen a twelve-year-old Keith last year as well. Maybe he was too soft on the youngsters…

“It should be illegal to be up this early,” David grouched. He was really channelling his inner angst-ridden teenager today. “It’s bogus.”

“Do you want Slytherin to beat us in November?” Shiro said airily because he knew one mention of their eternal rivals would reignite the flames of competition.

“No way!” Natalia growled. “Those snakes barf me out.”

“Totally,” Stephen agreed. “But we’ll beat them just like last year. Right, Keith?”

“Aye.”

Shiro glanced over his shoulder at the third-year, smiling softly. He’d never forget that match. Keith’s first time on the pitch and he’d swindled the Snitch from right under Narti Khan’s nose with an effortless dive into the face of a bewildered Slytherin supporter.

Natalia started laughing. “That was the joint.”

“I remember that!” Hamish suddenly squealed. “It was far out! That’s when I decided I wanted to play Quidditch.”

The others grunted in agreement. Keith had made quite a name for himself since then, having become famous around the school as a star Seeker with killer instincts and an affinity for all-out recklessness. Even in friendly matches he gave his all and it made Shiro swell with pride. Sure, he didn’t have the finesse of Ravenclaw’s Allura Albright, nor was he as quick and calculating as Khan, but he was Hogwarts’s best.

As they clambered over the ridge of a hill, the seven redcoats lapsed into a silence that would have been absolute if it weren’t for the sound of their boots squelching in the grass, their sleepy, laboured breathing, and the echoes of the dawn chorus. The birdsong sounded orchestral; the hoot of the tawny owl just before its slumber acted as a bassline, strong and constant, whilst the chaffinch’s repetitive twitter, like an ostinato, set a percussive rhythm. Shiro heard the blackbirds’ and wrens’ melodies entwining and intermingling as though they were having a conversation, and listened carefully to the punctuated squeak of the robins, sharp and questioning.

The tall, wooden towers of the Quidditch pitch burned in the new sunlight, their flags lifted high on the soft breeze. The sight of it seemed to invigorate the team because, at once, they were discussing positions and tactics and what they wanted to accomplish during practice and the state of the other teams and “are the rumours about Lance McClain getting onto Ravenclaw’s team true? _Really?_ ”

Most of their Muggle talk was completely lost to Shiro and Keith too if his endless questions on their vernacular were anything to go by. It was almost as though they were speaking a different language. He found himself so lost on trying and failing to interpret what they were saying that he almost didn’t notice a very small figure emerging from the long shadows beneath the structure before them.

Shiro’s gaze shifted to a pair of golden eyes behind round spectacles and suddenly he was eleven-years-old, boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time, weighed down with too much luggage and too many clothes and too many snacks, talking to a pale-skinned boy with messy hair and a messy smile too big for his face.

He saw firelight in the Great Hall and heard the Sorting Hat announce “Slytherin!” then “Gryffindor!” and felt coils of sadness in his chest because he and his first friend had already been separated in less than a day and it wasn’t fair. But then there were hushed conversations in Potions and concoctions boiling over because they’d forgotten about them, Flying lessons where one would fall and the other would catch them, flippant taunting and sincere encouragement before Quidditch games, matching Prefect badges, and starlight.

Shiro world lurched on its axiom and the knowledge that he was nothing but oxygen and hydrogen held together by helium and gravity came crashing down upon him like a falling tree. He was traceable to the crucibles that cooked light elements into heavy metals in their core under extreme pressures and temperatures, traceable back to the high mass stars that had exploded, scattering their enriched guts – guts made of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and all the fundamental ingredients of life itself – across the galaxy, and traceable back to Matthew Holt, whose memory greeted him at the entrance to pitch like an old friend.

Only it wasn’t a memory.

In front of him was a real, corporeal boy, dressed in the same green robes and wearing the same round glasses from all those years ago. He wasn’t smiling. He had this unfamiliar look, something fierce and determined and terrifying, and Shiro thought that maybe he was having an episode and needed to be psychologically examined or go to sleep because this _wasn’t normal._

“Shiro?” the boy asked and their voice was nothing like Matt’s, _thank God._ “Short for Takashi Shirogane?” His mouth stumbled over the foreign syllables.

The entire Gryffindor team stopped their conversations immediately and, in his peripheral vision, Shiro saw them pivot to stare. Before he could even wet his lips to get a word out, Keith was straight in, manoeuvring himself so he was stood in front of his Captain with his broom planted in the ground firmly at his side like a barrier.

“You again? What are you doing here?”

David stepped forward too. “It’s Gryffindor’s practice time, _not_ Slytherin’s, and don’t go telling me that Malfoy’s booked the pitch because we always practice at this time on Sundays.”

The boy glanced between them but didn’t hesitate. “I know that.”

“How long have you been waiting here?” Natalia asked, eyes narrowed.

“Not long.”

“Malfoy’s sent a first-year as a spy, hasn’t he?” Stephen snorted. “Pathetic.”

“I’m not a spy!” The boy was bristling now, his hair like a brown flame in the growing sunlight. He looked so much like Matt yet nothing like him at the same time. “Besides, the Quidditch stands are open to everyone so I could watch you practise if I want to.”

“As if we’d let you, piss-breath,” David sneered.

“Hamblin, _no_ ,” Shiro said firmly. “Don’t use that language with a first-year.”

He grumbled tetchily over whether he was really going to get sent to detention for that, but retreated anyway, resigning himself to kicking at the ground nearby.

“I’m not here to spy,” the Slytherin boy repeated.

“Why are you here then?” Keith asked. Shiro couldn’t see his face but he could tell from his tone alone that he was irritated.

“I need to speak with Shiro.”

 _What? Why?_ The sky ripened to a cool, crisp lilac above.

“Do you know him?” Stephen whispered loudly.

“No,” Shiro muttered, placing his hand on Keith’s shoulder. His next words were in Japanese, solely for him. “You’ve met him before?”

Keith tilted his neck to match his gaze, dark eyes blazing. “Yes. This is Pidge Gunderson. He was asking about you the other day.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

The following pause endured horribly and Shiro forced himself to reflect on any defining moment this year that would lead the Pidge Gunderson to talk with him. They’d never met, although Shiro had heard his name before ( _everyone_ had at this point) and even though he didn’t understand and was definitely missing something important, he knew that he had to end the awkwardness with something other than silence.

And the boy’s familiarity, his resonance with Matt, was both enticing and repulsive.

“Okay,” Shiro announced, this time in English as he stepped around Keith. “David, if you take the team to warm up, I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“What? But –”

Though Shiro smiled at him, there was a threat behind his eyes that forced David to obey, albeit begrudgingly. The rest of the team siphoned off through the closest door, brooms at the ready. Keith lingered.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly and his thick eyebrows were knitted together on his forehead. He was a quiet boy but his face always spoke magnitudes. Shiro only had to nod and he was following the others.

Then they were left alone in the receding shadow of the wooden towers with a chasm of strangeness between them.

“What’s this about?” Shiro eventually asked, voice light but stomach heavy.

Pidge took a deep breath. “I need you to tell me everything you know about Matthew Holt.”

Just like that, his world imploded again. He wondered when it was going to end. As though comforting Sam and Colleen in their grief hadn’t been enough for him, it felt like the universe was playing one sick joke after another. The same hypervigilance that had kept him awake all night, the never knowing what to expect but knowing to expect something, was back.

“Excuse me?” Shiro wheezed, sounding and feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.

“You two are friends and –”

“ _Were_.”

Pidge blinked at him, all innocent confusion. “Sorry?”

“We _were_ friends,” Shiro corrected. His tongue felt heavy with the effort and he could feel his heartrate pick up. His fingers closed tighter around his broom, his lifeline as he fell through the sky. “Not anymore.”

“You mean not since he was expelled?” Pidge asked, tone accusatory. There was a blotchy warmth to his face and he had balled his fists up by his side. It looked as though he had taken great offence to Shiro’s amendment.

“Well – no. I haven’t heard anything from him since he left.”

The Slytherin boy wrinkled his nose, but his hands fell limply to his hips. “Nothing?”

His moment of resignation jarred Shiro so much that he almost forgot to speak.

“Why,” he seethed through teeth gritted so tight that it sounded like a growl, “do you want to know about Matthew Holt?”

“I’m looking for him.”

“But why?”

Nothing made sense. It didn’t make sense that Pidge knew who Shiro was or that he had been friends with Matt a year ago, or that he, for some reason, thought he had anything to do with his antics since his expulsion. Why would he? Matt had never told him anything.

Pidge was scowling at him, stuck for words, and the sun rose over the hill to his far right. Shiro realised that the sun would keep rising whether he liked it or not, uncaring that he hadn’t slept, uncaring that he opposed its ascent into the sky. Some things just _happened_ with no care as to what he thought or felt about them at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” Pidge said. “But I thought you cared about him.”

“It does matter,” Shiro retorted, more aggressive than he’d ever sounded before or intended to be towards a child – he felt sickly and bitter and hollow because he was supposed to care but couldn’t find it in him anymore.

“So, you believe what they say about him? That he’s a maniac? A Death Eater?”

Shiro supposed everyone had suffered at least one betrayal in their lifetime. His, he felt, had come too early and too soon for him to handle. A friend whose name he now denounced, a friend whom he was supposed to trust. He thought of Sam and Colleen and their empty pleading and their surrender to their son’s sinfulness in the aftermath of Katie’s disappearance. He had only met her a few times. A fierce, boisterous little girl whom Matt had loved so dearly _gone_.

He thought of his obsession with the Vaults, the circulating rumours that he had cursed Hogwarts – cursed even _himself_ – his apparent madness.

“He must be,” Shiro whispered finally.

When he dared to look Pidge in the eye again, Shiro saw a mirror of himself. Hurt, betrayal, bundled into one – the feelings that he himself still struggled with. With his own lips, he had denounced Matt whilst his heart screamed tenderly. It was with love lashed by itself that he had spoken, his half-slain pride fluttering in the dust because the only thing more shameful than to be deceived by friends was to distrust them.

Pidge left before he could say anything else, sprinting past him in a flurry of green and following the arc of sunlight back down the hill towards the castle. He ran as though his life depended on it and Shiro didn’t even know _why_. Who was this boy with Matt’s eyes, Matt’s hair, Matt’s face wearing the same type of oversized green jumper and why did he matter? Why did he _care?_

Shiro watched him retreat, and from his sweaty-palmed anxiety bloomed vivid imagination and the bittersweet taste of cowardice against a rosy sunrise.

 

* * *

 

“Bastards.”

In the green lowlight of the Slytherin common room, Acxa’s face was murderous. Rather than seat herself on one of the black leather couches with her classmates, she had taken to pacing in front of the fireplace restlessly. Every so often, the burning logs spat as though they too shared her frustration. Down in the bowels of the dungeons, there was no natural light, save the refracted sunshine from the surface of the lake. Its murky depths glowed orange in the wake of a late afternoon.

“So, what exactly happened?” Ezor asked.

“There’s been another issue with that Merula Snyde girl,” Lotor explained. Though his casual tone and demeanour, what with his body sprawled across the armchair, oozed nonchalance, his brain seared hot with rage.

“The mouthy one from the Welcoming Feast?” Zethrid growled.

“Yes.”

“Sorry, who?” Narti signed rapidly, her fingers moving in tandem Kova’s mewling. He was perched on her shoulder like a bird, his tail lightly sweeping the back of the upholstery.

“A troublemaking Purist first-year,” Lotor sighed. “She’s been bullying Muggle-born students.”

“The other day she assaulted Pidge Gunderson and Rowan Khanna as they were playing Gobstones,” Acxa added.

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Ezor remarked, raising her hand to her mouth in shock. “What does Professor Snape have to say about it?”

Acxa suddenly grabbed the fire poker and started stabbing at the coals. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean? Didn’t you just have a Prefect meeting with him?”

“Aye, we did, but Snape doesn’t want to take action when the only ones testifying against her just so happen to have _mixed affiliations_.”

The fire hissed with contempt.

“He really does overestimate my feelings for my mother,” Lotor muttered as he reclined against the arm of his chair. “Merula’s parents were Death Eaters so the other Prefects assume that our disdain for her actions is a reflection of our own pro-Muggle sympathies.”

The Marmora family especially had been known for their resistance to pure-blood supremacy, hence Acxa’s rage. Lotor regarded her carefully and watched the firelight leap across her face, swim in her eyes, lick at the harsh point of her nose. _She’s probably thinking of her brother._

“I hear she’s been causing problems with the Gryffindors too,” Zethrid said.

“Yes,” Lotor confirmed. “She enjoys picking on a boy called Ben Copper because he’s too cowardly to stand up for himself.”

“Surely the Professor would do something about that,” Ezor murmured.

But Lotor recalled the stink of Snape’s office, the jar-lined shelves of gruesome body parts that peered at him and the sizzle of the cauldron in the corner. He had sneered at the claims, death-like in his black gown and high collar. The Head Boy and Head Girl had been less than impressed, both bored and angry and tired from their meeting in Dumbledore’s office the night before. Rumour had it that someone important had come to visit though Lotor had no clue who it could’ve been. It was all very hush-hush.

“No,” Axca seethed. “He claims it’s only an issue if McGonagall hears and decides to take action. Her House, her problem.”

Ezor gasped. “That’s so unfair!”

“What about other witnesses?” Narti signed. Her face, usually apathetic, was marred with a frown.

“We were the only ones who saw it happen,” Lotor huffed. “And, according to Rosier, students don’t learn the Knockback Jinx until Year Two so she couldn’t _possibly_ have cast **Flipendo** on them.”

“Could you not check her wand for the last spell she cast?” Zethrid suggested.

Acxa grunted, now impatient, “It’s been an entire day since then. She’d have used her wand for lessons and whatnot.”

“So, there’s nothing you can do? Nothing _at all?_ ” Ezor pressed, voice pitched high and whiny.

Acxa suddenly abandoned her mutilation of the fireplace and twirled angrily on her heel. “What does it sound like to you, Ezor? What would _you_ have us do?”

The redhead shrunk back in her chair, blue eyes wide, and the group lapsed into silence. The tension was palpable in the almost-empty common room and Lotor found his eyes drawn to a moth that had found its way inside. He found that frustration was an interesting emotional state – it tended to bring out the worst in people.

Frustrated babies threw food and made a mess. Frustrated citizens executed kings and queens and made a democracy. And frustrated moths banged up against lightbulbs and made light fixtures all dusty. There were no lightbulbs in Hogwarts. The moth, like an Icarus, flew too close to the walltorch’s flame and _burned_.

Lotor stood up.

“Where are you going?” Zethrid asked, her voice like thunder in the quiet.

“I have an idea,” he responded coolly as he walked towards the corridors to the dormitories. He could tell that the others were crowding to follow him from the squeak of the couches and their soles against the floor. “I’ll go alone.”

He heard Acxa grunt. “What are you going to do?”

“Fight fire with fire.”

The boys’ dormitories were down the first spiral staircase on the left. Had Lotor turned right instead, an enchanted iron portcullis would have instantly released and barred the way to the girls’ wing. But that didn’t happen because he was no Peeping Tom.

The stairwell smelled musty and earthy, and there was a slight absence of light. In the dark, all the familiar noises of the upper world were gone. The rustle of leaves, the chirping of birds, doors slamming, people laughing. There was nothing but the faint tinkle of water dripping from the ceiling, each drop like a distant musical chime, pursued by tiny echoes. Then, after such a note had sounded, there would be a long and empty quiet in which Lotor could hear his own breathing and the steady beat of his heart.

The sound of his knuckles against damp hardwood broke the quiet.

“Coming!” a muffled voice yelled from the other side and, a few minutes later, Lotor was looking down at a pale boy with glasses and messy brown hair. He wearing an oversized green jumper with a single band of silver across its chest. “Uh…Prefect Malfoy?”

“Gunderson,” Lotor greeted. “I need you to come with me.”

From the darkness of the room, a harsh voice sneered, “In trouble again? What have you done this time, Pigeon?”

Lotor recognised its owner as Barnaby Lee, a crass boy with a square jaw, wideset eyes and dark hair. An associate of Snyde’s. When he grinned, he looked like a frog.

“Actually, I require his assistance with something.”

Pidge stared at him dumbly. “My…assistance?”

“Yes, so hurry up and put some shoes on.”

There was an unspoken question hanging between them – Pidge’s eyes asked “ _why?_ ” The last time Lotor had seen him, he’d been helping him up off his arse in the Clocktower Courtyard. He remembered dim sunlight shining on scattered Gobstones and the faint stench of smoke in the air, lingering like Merula’s laughter as she’d fled through the cloister. Acxa had been livid, eager to chase. But instead they’d made a promise to _fix this_ and ensure the girl’s bullying wouldn’t continue.

They’d failed and Pidge probably knew that by now. He didn’t say anything as he sat on the step and slipped on a pair of black loafers, nor did he open his mouth when Lotor led him through the common room, past Acxa’s curios glare, and upwards out of the dungeons. His face, the deep crinkle of his brow, betrayed his suspicion.

“Why do you need _my_ help?” Pidge finally asked once they’d reached the foot of the Grand Staircase. The steps moved and rotated, and the sound of stone grinding against stone filled the hallway. “Don’t you have friends for that?”

Lotor barked out a laugh. The kid was still lippy. “I’m sorry, did you have something better to do?”

“Yes. My homework.”

“That can definitely wait.”

He ascended the staircase, quickly glancing down to check that Pidge was following. There were a few Ravenclaws out and about, probably on their way back from the library, and some Hufflepuffs dressed in Quidditch robes coming back from the pitch. That meant it was almost time for dinner.

“Where are you taking me?” Pidge asked.

Lotor sighed. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“Only when information is being _withheld from me_.”

The Prefect turned at the top of their current set of steps, barely wavering when they shuddered to a halt in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. She glared at the two of them over the rim of her wine glass, eyes flashing over their green clothing with scorn. They were out of earshot as long as they kept their voices low. Pidge had stopped and stood with his little fists bunched at his hips.

“Is this about Merula?” he asked tiredly.

“Yes.”

“There’s no point. I already know she’s not going to be punished.”

This sudden defeatist attitude was _startling_ , but Lotor didn’t let that put him off. He barely missed a beat.

“And you know she will keep attacking you until you do something to stop her,” he stated.

Pidge’s expression turned quizzical. His hands unfurled, sad little fingers moving to fiddle with the hem of his jumper. “Stop…her?”

“You need to learn how to defend yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t gawk at me like that. It’s unbecoming.”

At once, the boy’s mouth snapped shut. Lotor knew his plan was reckless and he knew he wasn’t exactly being _helpful_. Assisting the weak wasn’t really his thing but he’d be damned if he let his House run rampant with racism.

“What do you mean by ‘defend myself?’” Pidge growled, accompanying his drivel with air quotes. _Air quotes_ of all things. “Do you mean _duelling?_ ”

The Fat Lady shushed them from behind a bulbous finger, muttering, “Slytherins. Disturbing the peace, _as usual_.”

Lotor glared at her. It would be too easy to insult her size but he wasn’t here to pick a fight with the lions.

“Of course,” he soothed. “I wouldn’t be doing my job as your Prefect if I didn’t help teach you to protect yourself.”

Pidge glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Unsupervised duelling is against the rules.”

“So is assaulting a student.”

It was a simple statement really, but it opened a gap in their conversation. The steps they stood on started to move, rotating around to the next open balcony. Though Lotor stood on the precipice, the stairwell shaft yawning beneath him, he did not stumble. Pidge wobbled slightly and he reached out to brace himself on the stone bannister, unused to the sensation of the very ground shaking beneath his feet. _He’ll have to get used to that – physically_ and _metaphorically._

“Does this mean,” Pidge asked after a deep breath, “that you’re going to teach me how to duel Merula?”

“No,” Lotor chuckled and those brown eyes were on him again, impatient and questioning. “Well, not really. Do you think I have time for that on top of my Prefect duties, revising for my N.E.W.T.s, _and_ captaining our Quidditch team?”

“I guess not…”

“No,” he repeated. “Slytherin keeps a secret duelling book hidden in the Artefact Room on the Third Floor.”

“A secret duelling book?” Pidge muttered.

“Yes. It will teach you all you need to know about Charms, Jinxes, Hexes, and Curses.”

The staircase ground to a halt in front of a long, dark corridor. The paintings hanging on the wall bustled, their subjects rushing to-and-fro with plates of steaming food that Lotor knew would be hot to touch, even for his hands. He took one step forward, his foot meeting a carpet of soft burgundy.  

“Wait!” Pidge called. He hesitated. “I’m still not sure about this. I can’t just _duel_ Merula and expect everything to be okay.”

Lotor sighed. The boy’s reluctance was growing tedious. “Forgive me, Gunderson, but I didn’t realise you enjoyed being beaten into submission so much.”

“Why me, anyway?”

_Here we go. I thought he was more intelligent than this?_

“I thought that was obvious. You’re her favourite subject to pick on so surely _you_ should be the one to put her in her place.”

Something itched at the back of Lotor’s mind – something ugly that hearkened back to his own first-year experiences and the battles he fought to keep his place in Slytherin, something that whispered “justice” on repeat. Pidge was _just like him_ in so many ways. Why couldn’t he see that? One glance over his shoulder at the boy quaking on the staircase prompted him to add, “If it makes you feel any better, don’t look at it as duelling her – just protecting yourself if she ever does attack you again.”

Lotor heard Pidge breathe out a shaky sigh. “Yeah.”

“And what about your friends? Don’t you want to protect them? The only reason she attacked that Khanna boy was to get to you.”

The face the boy pulled next was ugly but honest. “I know.”

Lotor almost felt sorry for him, for his tainted childhood. But he was lucky. Lucky to have someone stand in front of him and guide the way. Some weren’t given such a luxury.

“You’d better hurry before those steps decide to move again,” he warned. “Are you coming up? Or going back down?”

The rapid _tap-tap_ of shoes on marble provided his answer.

The Artefact Room was not small but the lack of floorspace from all the cabinets and utter rubbish that had been strewn everywhere made it seem so. The chaos was terrifying in that it promised many hours of fruitless searching. In the corner was a blackboard with an astronomy circle etched onto the front in pink chalk. Various planetary symbols had been added, as though in orbit, with lines and notes written besides them – _Mercury in retrograde, trine Saturn, emergence of Chiron._

“They say untold treasures lie within the Artefact Room,” Pidge whispered, his eyes twinkling with awe. He looked as though he were fighting the urge to catalogue every single thing in the room, knees bent ridiculously and arms poised ready at his sides.

“Along with untold odours,” Lotor grunted, wrinkling his nose. “Let’s hurry up and find that book.”

He sidestepped a brass globe on the floor, perpetually turning on a broken axis, and accidentally kicked a silver candle snuffer against the far wall on his way to the wooden lockers. Books, packed tight on shelves and lying in piles upon every surface greeted him, stinking of warm, rich words and deep thoughts. The smell reminded Lotor of Snape’s office, though it was less damp.

“ **Lumos** ,” he muttered after drawing his wand as he knelt and perused the titles. Tome upon tome flashed golden and silver lettering at him, though none of their names were correct.

“A book on Apparition!” Pidge squealed joyfully from the other side of the room. “I’ll remember to read this one later.”

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” Lotor hissed. “You have to be seventeen-years-old to learn how to Apparate and Disapparate.”

“I _know_ that. You learn in Year Six. I’m not stupid.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about wizardkind despite being a Muggle-born.”

Pidge was quiet for a few moments. “I did a lot of reading over the summer.”

For some reason, Lotor didn’t believe him, but he didn’t press. He instead rose to his full height and moved to a different section of the room. There was something inexplicably vulnerable about Pidge Gunderson, something that voiced his need for help no matter how reluctant he was to accept it. It was annoying because Lotor didn’t stick up for the underdog – he didn’t _like_ children, let alone help them search for a musty old book in a dark room so they could exact revenge upon their enemies.

Merula’s mean, violet eyes shone bright in his mind and he remembered why he was here. The itch in his mind returned, more insistent than before.

A few perfectly curled scrolls with yellow edges stuck out of a nearby barrel, but Lotor bypassed them in a favour of checking a cabinet with a broken lock. Its hinges were horrifically rusty and it creaked like old bones when he touched it.

“What?” Pidge said. In his periphery, Lotor saw him turn and fix him with a questioning stare, eyes amber in the wandlight.

“Pardon?”

“You said my name.”

Lotor blinked, genuinely perplexed. “No, I didn’t.”

“I heard a voice.”

The air of the Artefact Room remained saturated with silence. It was a tense quiet and Lotor wouldn’t have cared about it if it weren’t for the certainty, the fear in Pidge’s eyes. He slowly raised his wand.

“ **Homenum Revelio** ,” he whispered.

Had there been another human presence in that room, they would have been revealed. But there was nothing. _Nothing happened._ Lotor sighed deeply and straightened up, refusing to succumb to the trepidation that they had perhaps been followed.

“It must have been my imagination,” Pidge muttered quickly, cheeks flushed pink. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

There was still an uneasiness between them, and Lotor felt that Pidge didn’t truly believe his own words. He seemed shaken, like he’d seen – or perhaps heard – a ghost, as he moved to a section of the wall with high shelving that bent under the weight of stacks and stacks of old grimoires. He was clearly too short to reach up there and the wandlight didn’t reach far enough, so Lotor moved closer and held his arm up.

The familiar silver binding of Slytherin’s own secret duel-book glittered in the harsh luminescence.

“There it is,” he announced quietly.

“I can get it,” Pidge said, having clambered onto a wooden stool. His fingers reached high, just brushing the spine – though his knuckles buckled underneath the sheer enormity of the book’s size and it clattered to the ground. A small puff of dust spat up from the flagstones and Lotor eyed a folded piece of parchment that broke free from the book’s pages and skidded across the floor. “Oops.”

“Well done.”

Whilst Lotor bent to pick up the grimoire, Pidge leapt down from the stool and examined the paper.

“One of the pages fell out,” he lamented.

“That’s not a page,” Lotor grunted after a brief glance. Whilst the book itself was mottled and boasted a silver rim on all of its pages, the parchment was bare, white, and waxen. And also _obviously_ enchanted.

“It must be a bookmark,” Pidge mused, eyebrows furrowed. “But it feels weird. Heavy.”

 _Surprising._ Lotor thought he would be too inexperienced to feel the thrum of its magic in his hands. He plopped the duelling book down on the stool. “No. Give it to me. **Aparecium.** ”

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for invisible ink or messages.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never seen this before and it was wedged in the pages of the book. I want to know who’s been reading it.”

The page remained blank, much to Lotor’s chagrin. He could _feel_ the magical energy against his fingers so _why wasn’t anything happening?_ Pidge leaned over curiously.

“Did you do it wrong?”

“ _No_ ,” Lotor snapped, pressing his wand more firmly into the paper’s centre. “ **Revelio.** ”

For a second, he thought that his attempts to uncover the parchment’s secrets would be in vain again and that there truly was nothing there and he were instead just imagining the pinprick sensation in his hands, that his eyes were fooling him when they saw the faint sparks and glimmer at the paper’s edge. But slowly, surely, black ink started spilling out across the page in delicate cursive as though it were bleeding through from the other side.

 

` Mr Moony is utterly dismayed to find that this parchment has fallen into the hands of a Malfoy. `

 

Lotor almost gasped.

 

` Mr Prongs echoes Mr Moony’s sentiments completely and resists the urge to spit on such an abominable, loathsome little family. `

` Mr Padfoot would compliment Mr Malfoy on his marvellous hair if he didn’t suspect that he washed it in the tears of small children and the blood of virgins. `

` Mr Wormtail farts in your general direction. `

~~` I bet your mother is a hamster and your father smells of elderberries. ` ~~

 

“Why you…!”

Pidge snorted loudly, clutching at his stomach in reckless abandon as he threw back his head and laughed with all the insanity of a madman. His jumper, too loose, rippled violently with every chuckle that ripped forth from his nose and his eyes streamed with tears behind his glasses.

“Oh my _God!_ ” he squealed. “Who made this?”

“Shut your mouth, Gunderson,” Lotor snarled. The itch at the back of his head throbbed hot and livid and he felt he could have Hexed Pidge right there and then. “Probably some pranksters who think they’re awfully clever.”

He was no stranger to jokes. _Of course_ people found his ancestry hilarious. It was either some Gryffindor hotshots who thought it would be funny to leave a rancid note for him to find the next time he tried to devise new ways to Jinx them, or those from Slytherin who were so deeply offended by his half-blood status that they refused to confront him directly about it.

Lotor refused to waste his time on it. Without another word, he crumpled the parchment in one fist and dropped it to the floor where it could join the rest of the rubbish.

“Aw, don’t do that!” Pidge whined, bending down the pluck it from the wreckage. “I want to read more.”

“You will do _no such thing_ ,” Lotor commanded, promptly shoving his hand into the boy’s bird nest of a hair-do and tugging sharply to ensure he couldn’t bend down to swipe the nasty thing from the ground. “I bet it’s only good for one use. Go and grab your book instead. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _Sir? Smarmy._ Lotor opened the Artefact Room’s door wider so he could at least breathe some fresh air, away from the stuffiness and warmth and general unsavouriness. The corridor glowed purple from the light of brassieres. The people in the paintings must have eating because he could hear goblets clinking and raucous laughter echoing through the hallway. They were too far from the Great Hall for it to have been the students, surely. But he could still smell something delectable…beef casserole maybe?

From deep within the room, Pidge screamed.

“Gunderson!?” Lotor hissed, turning swiftly back from whence he’d come. “Are you alright?”

There was a shape hunched over the table, clutching at the grimoire they had left behind. Lotor raised his wand but stopped when its light revealed that it was only Pidge. He was shaking and breathing deeply through his nose. His hair fell over his eyes. All the mirth and laughter from before was gone.

“I saw something,” he whispered.

Lotor advanced quickly and grabbed his shoulder, eyes darting about the space. “What was it?”

Pidge tilted his neck slightly so that he could turn his head to look up at his Prefect. His eyes focused on Lotor’s face and at once his expression fell, the terror melting away until it was replaced with a listless concern that reeked of dishonesty.

“I…it was nothing,” he muttered.

“Nothing?” Lotor prompted, suddenly impatient. “You screamed for nothing?”

“A rat.” His voice was hurried. “On the floor. It must’ve been a rat.”

There was a power that came with silence. Lotor had never feared the unsaid more than he did in that moment because he knew – he fucking _knew_ – that Pidge Gunderson was either batshit insane or he was a dirty liar. The book couldn’t have been Bewitched because it had been handled by his own bare hands moments before the boy had touched it. If he had been irritating enough to pick up the parchment from the floor – and clearly he _had,_ Lotor could see the corner sticking out of his pocket – that still wouldn’t have induced a hallucination.

Pidge’s horror had been real and Lotor couldn’t believe it was only a rat.

“We should go back to the common room,” he said slowly. “And get some sleep.”

“That…that would be good,” the first-year responded shakily.

The entire walk back to the dungeons, he kept glancing over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

“ **Revelio**.”

 

` Mr Moony formally introduces himself to the newcomer, whose magic he does not recognise, and offers his deepest condolences. `

 

“…what?”

 

` Mr Prongs wonders whether elaboration is truly necessary in the wake of such an unfortunate soul. `

 

“Excuse me?”

 

` Mr Padfoot is so overcome with grief that he can barely stand. He would also like to express his distaste at conversing with a snake. `

 

“ **Revelio**!”

 

` Mr Wormtail is having a hard time keeping Mr Padfoot afoot (pun intended) and would greatly appreciate the reader’s help in the matter at hand. `

 

“Fascinating. What kind of magic _is_ this? It seems to be sentient _._ ”

 

` Obviously. Mr Moony confirms that he does, in fact, have a brain. `

` Mr Padfoot is currently dying and endeavours the reader to please – _please_ – contemplate their life choices. `

 

“I don’t understand. What are you talking – er, _writing_ – about?”

 

` Your hair, darling, your _hair_. It is absolutely atrocious. Mr Padfoot marvels at how one can go about in public looking so dastardly. `

~~` Just what is it about Slytherins and having terrible hair? Is there a secret club? ` ~~

 

“…how can you _see_ me?”

 

` Mr Prongs is, frankly, offended that one would insinuate his lack of omniscience. `

 

“Who are you?”

 

`Mr Moony thought he had made the point of introducing himself quite clear at the beginning of this colloquy. `

` Mr Padfoot is in total agreement with this statement. Are you daft? `

 

“So, there’s more than one of you?”

 

` Mr Prongs is in utter disbelief at one’s stupidity. Of course there are multiple proprietors, you fool. `

` Mr Wormtail finds it excessively rude that one has not thought it polite to mention they’re name. `

~~` Wrong there/their/they’re. What the fuck, Wormy. ` ~~

 

“My name is Pidge.”

 

` Mr Moony smells a lie. `

 

“It’s a nickname.”

 

` Mr Wormtail wrinkles his nose at the abysmal nom de plume. `

 

“You can talk. Wormtail sounds awful.”

 

` Touché. `

~~` Don’t agree with them! You’re making us look uncool. ` ~~

` Mr Prongs would like to request some information regarding Mx Pidge’s gender because he is confused. `

 

“Um. Can’t you tell?”

 

` Alas, no. Mx Pidge is most perplexing. `

 

“I’m not saying.”

 

` Why ever not? Though it was not our intention to offend in this particular instance, Mr Padfoot would like to assert that all feelings of offense evoked are entirely deliberate. `

` Mr Moony confesses that Mr Padfoot prides himself on his intolerability. `

 

“How do I know someone else isn’t reading this?”

 

` Oh, Mx Pidge, you wound us! Are you so doubtful of our aptitude? `

 

“Yes.”

 

` Mr Wormtail is most aggrieved by the assault on his ingenuity as co-creator of this masterpiece. `

` Mr Prongs supposes that Mx Pidge’s condensed size must account for their intense ignorance. One’s brain must be as small as a pea. `

` Mr Moony thinks that Mx Pidge is incredibly impolite. `

 

“My discourtesy must stem from my being closer to Hell.”

 

~~` Ha! That’s funny. ` ~~

~~` Shut up, Pads. ` ~~ ` Mr Moony finds this type of blasphemous humour amusing, yet churlish. He maintains that Mr Padfoot is both of these things. `

 

“Maybe Mr Moony should pull the stick out of his arse so he can reach his head.”

 

~~` Oh my God, I’m crying. `~~

` Mr Moony is, from this point onwards, no longer dignifying Mx Pidge’s vulgarity with responses. Good day. `

~~` LupOUT. ` ~~

 

“Touchy.”

 

` Mr Prongs is quite enamoured with Mx Pidge’s jocularity. It is most surprising for a serpent. `

 

~~` Stop flirting. You’re taken. `~~

~~` I wasn’t flirting! `~~

` Mr Wormtail draws attention to the fact that it is exceedingly late for a first-year to still be awake. `

 

“I…I can’t sleep.”

 

` Mr Padfoot presses kindly as to why this is. `

 

“Um. I saw something.”

 

` Mr Wormtail’s curiosity had been piqued. What was it, Mx Pidge? `

` Mr Prongs considers whether this is the result of a nightmare. `

 

“It was like more like a vision? There was a walking suit of armour, a staircase shrouded in mist, and ice encasing Hogwarts, spreading faster and faster…”

 

` Mr Prongs would like to inform Mx Pidge that Mr Padfoot is currently withering in fear. `

~~` I am not! `~~

~~` Yes, you are. Don’t lie. `~~

` Mr Wormtail thinks that this vision sounds terribly creepy. `

 

“It was. I heard a voice too!”

 

` A voice?`

~~` Please, make them stop. I don’t like ghost stories. `~~

 

“It said, ‘The ice is here. The vault will open.’”

 

` Ice? Vault? Mr Prongs thinks that Mx Pidge is quite mad. `

` Mr Wormtail is curious as to whose voice these words came from. `

 

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognise it.”

 

~~` This is terrifying. `~~

~~` Shut up, Pads. ` ~~ ` Mr Prongs would like to confirm whether there was anyone there to whom the voice could have belonged. `

 

“My Prefect was there but I don’t think it was him.”

 

~~` Ah, I remember. The Malfoy. `~~

~~` Such luscious locks. ` ~~ ` Mr Padfoot asserts that one will never find a Malfoy at the scene of a crime, though their fingerprints will be all over the guilty wand. `

 

“Why would he say something like that though?

 

` Why would a Malfoy do anything? They’re a chaotic bunch. `

` Purist freaks. `

~~` Absolute wankers.`~~

~~` Don’t swear, Pads, we’re in the company of innocent ears.`~~

~~` My apologies. `~~

 

“You insulted him.”

 

` Of course we did. `

 

“Why?”

 

` It was most entertaining. `

` Also, Mr Prongs begs that we can’t make just anyone privy to our secrets. `

 

“Secrets? What do you mean?”

 

` The contents of this parchment, my dear. `

 

“There are secrets hidden in here?”

 

` Why, Mx Pidge, of course. Why else would we so thoroughly enchant a piece of paper? `

 

“I want to read them.”

 

` Mr Wormtail is afraid that such a thing might not be possible. `

 

“Why not?”

 

` It is not that Mx Pidge is undeserving... `

` Mr Prongs delicately suggests that Mx Pidge’s objectives may not be so well acquainted with ours. `

 

“Right, I have no idea what you’re on about. If you don’t want to tell me about your _secrets_ , you should just say.”

 

` Mr Padfoot wishes to confirm Mx Pidge’s intentions with the article via which they are communicating. `

 

“My…intentions?”

 

` Indeed. Are they pure? `

 

“Um…I don’t know?”

 

` Unacceptable. `

 

“Well, if you’re also referencing that book I got from the Artefact Room, I’m trying to learn how to duel so I can beat up a bully.”

 

` Much better. `

` Mr Wormtail would advise Mx Pidge to exercise caution. `

` Mr Prongs would recommend liberal use of the Hangman Jinx – incantation: Levicorpus – preferably in a crowded area to maximise embarrassment. `

 

“Can you help me?”

 

` Not unless one is able to assure us of their motivations. `

 

“And how do I do that?”

 

` An oath. `

` A vow. `

` A pledge. `

 

“A promise?”

 

` Do you determinedly declare that you are engaging in nefarious behaviour? `

 

“…yes.”

 

` Mr Prongs laments that he cannot hear Mx Pidge’s voice. `

 

“Yes.”

 

` Mr Padfoot feels that Mx Pidge’s delivery is a little too vague. `

 

“ _Yes_.”

 

` Mr Wormtail suggests that perhaps repetition of the phrase would help. `

~~` Wormy, no! ` ~~

 

“…I determinedly declare that I am engaging in nefarious behaviour?”

 

~~` Great. Thanks, Wormy.`~~

` Mr Prongs is unsure of Mx Pidge’s conviction. `

 

“I determinedly declare that I am engaging in nefarious behaviour!”

 

` Mr Padfoot thinks that is all well and good but asserts that imitation is the lowest form of wit. `

 

“Ugh, what does that _mean_?”

 

` Try again. `

 

“Is it a riddle?”

 

` Of sorts. The kind of cunning a snake would derive pleasure from. `

 

“I’m really good at riddles.”

 

` Prove it. `

 

“I…clearly confirm that I am committing something criminal?”

 

` Aha! `

` By Jove, they’ve got it. `

 

“I have?”

 

` The gist. `

 

“Okay. I guilefully guarantee that I am maliciously moonlighting.”

 

` Mr Prongs is impressed and thinks that Mr Moony especially would enjoy this creative implementation of vocabulary. `

` Mr Padfoot will go and fetch him immediately. `

` Mr Wormtail believes he might be in the Room of Requirement, hence his being Unplottable at this moment in time. `

 

“The Room of Requirement? Are you guys at Hogwarts?”

 

`Mr Prongs advises that Mx Pidge checks their tenses. `

 

“…were?”

 

` Mr Moony expresses no small degree of outrage at having been disturbed from his book and requests that Mx Pidge humours him before he takes it upon himself to Hex Mr Padfoot into the next decade. `

 

“Uh, okay. I audaciously assure that I am executing a felony.”

 

` Are you actually fucking serious? `

~~` No, but I wish I was.`~~

` That was poor. Mr Moony is reeling with disappointment. `

~~` Please don’t hurt me. `~~

 

“I…happily herald that I am involved in fraudulent activities.”

 

~~` Save me, Mx Pidge. I beg of you. `~~

` Mr Prongs thinks that Mx Pidge should utilise more sibilance in their attempts. `

 

“Sibilance?”

 

~~` Hiss, hiss, motherfucker. `~~

 

“I…er… _ess, ess, ess_ …swear?”

 

` Eureka! `

` How stately is your swearing? `

 

“Very stately.”

 

` Mr Wormtail asks whether Mx Pidge’s swear is truly sanctimonious. `

` Mr Padfoot ~~is a massive cock~~ questions how sacred Mx Pidge’s swearing is.  `

` Mr Moony ~~wants death~~ requires confirmation on the sincerity of Mx Pidge’s swear.  `

` Dare it be...solemn? `

 

“I solemnly swear.”

 

` Pray tell, _what_ do you solemnly swear, Mx Pidge?` ` ` `   
` ` `

 

` What are you up to? `

 

“I solemnly swear that…I am up to no good?”

 

_` Messrs,`_

` MOONY, WORMTAIL`

` PADFOOT & PRONGS`

` Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers`

_` are proud to present`_

 

` THE MARAUDER’S MAP`

 

* * *

 

 

The castle was eerily quiet in the wake of midnight. At least, Hunk thought it was midnight – it must have been. Enough time had passed since his detour to the kitchens to get some late-night snacks. The house-elves had been more than happy to feed their favourite customer even though he was out of bed after curfew and Hunk was never one to pass up their hospitality. Their cooking was just too good!

He skulked across the empty Entrance Hall with a cherry Bakewell tart in each hand and tried to quell his scattered nerves. Even though he moved in darkness’s cover, avoiding the squares of light cast on the floor by moonlight through the windows, he felt horrendously exposed. He had just missed the rush of students heading up to the Astronomy Tower and would, hopefully, be back in bed before their classes ended but the fact that he didn’t have the map was setting him on edge.

He felt naked, uncertain – _anything_ could be waiting around the corner and he was _so_ unprepared and it was _all Lance’s fault_. It was Hunk’s turn to take the map, damn it! Lance had it last week!

The great wooden doors creaked as Hunk slowly pushed them open and he winced. It was startling how loud little sounds became when one was in the dark and doing something illegal.

To his relief, the Clocktower Courtyard was deserted save for Lance, half-drunk on starlight, sat on the lip of the fountain at its epicentre, legs crossed and face angled up to the sky. His hair glittered silver from the droplets of water that had dampened it, and Hunk almost cursed when he saw he was wearing only his bedclothes. No jacket. _Idiot._

“You’ll catch your death of cold dressed like that,” he warned.

Lance practically shrieked, “shit!” and leapt out of his skin, landing in a heap of limbs on the flagstones.

“ _Quiet!_ Are you trying to get us caught?”

“Fucking hell, Hunk! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry. I didn’t realise you were spacing out so hard. I brought you a tart?”

The Ravenclaw beamed. “Thanks, pal!”

He accepted the peace offering gratefully and wasted no time in stuffing his face. The sound of the fountain gurgling was pleasant and just about masked their conversation as the two of them sat on its edge facing each other. Lance ended up dipping his fingers in to rid them of the icing, which he’d somehow managed to get _everywhere._ He was such a messy eater.

“You shouldn’t scoff it like that,” Hunk griped after wholly swallowing his last mouthful. “You’ll never taste anything if you do that.”

“What?” Lance coughed, spraying crumbs. “I’m hungry.”

“But you’ve got to _savour_ it, you know? The firm, nut-infused base, not too dry yet not too moist, the sweet, _sweet_ icing, the ripe raspberry jam…”

“If you wanted me to give you two some privacy, all you had to do was ask.”

Hunk rolled his eyes. “Oh, _ha ha_.”

He had expected himself to be more annoyed, not necessarily at that comment, but at his friend’s overall nonchalance. Anyone could have chanced across him daydreaming – _nightdreaming?_ –  in the courtyard, and he didn’t even have the map out to check who was nearby. He also hadn’t offered an explanation as to why he’d taken it instead of leaving it in the Artefact Room for Hunk but they’d get to that eventually.

“I’m serious about what I said before,” Hunk muttered, reaching over to feel the thin white cotton of Lance’s t-shirt between his fingers. His trousers were very loose too, light blue in colour to match his trainers. It didn’t look like he was wearing any socks. “You’re too skinny for this. At least I have the extra layer of insulation. How are you not freezing?”

Lance shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“Congratulations, by the way. Nyma told me you were picked for the Quidditch team!”

There was a visible enthusiasm that flashed in his eyes, warm blue, and Hunk knew his own happiness was not misplaced. The excitement of dreams coming true was often beyond the description of words. Lance just grinned, wide and genuine, and scratched the back of his head in a gesture that was _meant_ to make him seem humble in the wake of his boastfulness, but only made him look more arrogant. He, unfortunately, loved to brag yet Hunk, fortunately, loved to listen.

“Oh, aye! I mean, everyone obviously _knew_ Allura was going to pick me but that didn’t mean I couldn’t show off my new moves. Everyone else was deadweight. I even gave Rolo a run for his money.”

“What position are you going to play?”

Lance’s grin, impossibly, widened and he quirked an eyebrow. His teeth gleamed in the fountain’s reflection. “Guess.”

Hunk blanched. Quidditch lingo was not his forte. “Um…Chaser?”

“No.”

“Keeper?”

“Nuh uh.”

 _What position does Rolo play?_ “Cheater?”

Lance snorted. “Do you mean ‘Beater?’”

“That’s the one, yeah.”

“Nope.”

Hunk could feel his eyelids slowly peeling back. He whispered, “no way,” awestruck. His only response was a collection of silent, vigorous nods and he could see Lance’s nostrils fluttering with the exertion of breathing so fast. He looked as though he could barely contain himself and, to be honest, he probably couldn’t.

“You’re their new _Seeker?_ ”

“Aye! Can you believe it?"

“But – I thought Allura was Seeker for the Ravenclaw team? So, she chose you to replace her?”

“I know right!” Lance yelped eagerly. His voice echoed around the cloister and Hunk cringed at how loud it was. “She’s going to play Keeper from now on because there were no good candidates for that spot but I’m just so happy!”

“All that practise paid off.”

“Aye. She said my _lankiness_ will be very useful for reaching out to grab the Snitch.”

Hunk spluttered. “Hey, you know I didn’t mean it –”

“I know. I’m just teasing.” Lance’s tongue poked out from between his lips and he winked. Hunk shoved him just hard enough to throw him off balance, yet not enough so that he’d tumble back into the water.

“Wow, you’d make a terrible Beater,” he mused tauntingly. “No upper body strength.”

Lance rubbed at his shoulder, wincing. “Shit, Hunk, you could probably take on Gwenog Jones with an arm like that.”

“Sorry, that was too hard, wasn’t it? When’s your first match?”

“Um, late November,” the Ravenclaw announced, scratching his chin. His eyes narrowed. “Against…Hufflepuff.”

Unsurprisingly, Hunk wasn’t fazed. “Oh, no,” he groaned dramatically. “Whoever shall I support?”

Before he could even blink, there was a long, tanned index finger pointing straight at his nose. “You ought to remember where your loyalties lie.”

“Relax,” the Hufflpuff chuckled. “Of course I’ll cheer for you. I don’t care about sports all that much anyway.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Their friendship was funny, really. In most ways, it shouldn’t have worked. Not just because they were in different Houses; rivalries based purely on that kind of bigotry were worthless. It was just how they gelled together. Lance was adaptable by nature, though this versatility gave his personality the taste of marmite – some thought he was fake, others appreciated his willingness to try for them. But Hunk didn’t need Lance to impress him. He liked him when he was true to himself best, even when they didn’t agree, not for the grand gestures or bravado. The real mettle of friendship was forged in life’s daily workings.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” Hunk asked.

Lance pushed himself up onto his feet by his hands. The air was so cold that the dewdrops in his hair had crystallised and become frost, but he barely seemed to notice.

“Right,” he announced. “You remember that essay we had to write for Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

Hunk frowned. “No?”

“Actually, _you_ wouldn’t because I wrote yours for you.”

“Ah, I remember now. That was payback for freezing my book. Thanks for that.”

“Aye,” Lance huffed. “Don’t remind me. It was about Boggarts but the teacher missed that lesson so we didn’t even get to face a real one…”

Hunk muttered a quick prayer. There were no words to express his gratitude at _not_ having to come face-to-face with his greatest fear in front of half his year. He was sure it would be something embarrassing, perhaps a combination of everything that made him wet the bed at night when he was child.

“…but that means there’s definitely a Boggart in the school somewhere,” Lance continued.

“Don’t say that,” Hunk groaned. “I don’t want to think about one of those things lurking around.”

“It won’t be lurking around the castle, Hunk. It’ll be kept in a cabinet – somewhere under lock and key.”

Lance had that Look in his eyes that Hunk hated. He was pacing, knuckles rubbing his chin with his lips pursed and eyes blazing as though he’d seen something fascinating that illuminated every single neuron in his brain. It was the way he’d look during nonsensical conversations, how he’d admire complex architecture, aquariums and cats, thinking about Stephen Sondheim lyrics and _The Twilight Zone_ by Rob Sterling, listening to the sound of rain against a window whilst painting with watercolours and devising awful puns and studying the solar system. It was the Look of a plan in motion.

“No,” Hunk warned.

Lance beamed at him mischievously. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking – _no_.”

“Aw, come _on_. You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”

“I can guess that it probably involves Boggarts so I definitely don’t want anything to do with it. Can’t we just practise Charms or something? Your Glacius could use some work.”

“Ugh,” Lance moaned, raising his arms above his head in some mad gesture to the sky. He could be so dramatic sometimes. “No, that’s so _boring_. And there’s nothing wrong with the way I cast Glacius!”

“I beg to differ,” Hunk muttered. He could already tell Lance wasn’t going to let up easily. He was probably still high from placing on the Quidditch team.

“Look,” the Ravenclaw started in that same annoying persuasive tone he adopted whenever he tried to convince his friends he wasn’t an utter raving lunatic. “All I want to do is fight a Boggart.”

“No.”

“You can just sit back and watch.”

“No.”

“And when I’ve defeated it once, we never have to do it again.”

“No.”

“Except maybe in class if our lousy Professor ever turns up again…”

“Definitely not.”

“But then we’ll be prepared!”

“ _No._ ”

“And we’ll look totally awesome!”

“No, Lance! Where would we even find a Boggart!?”

Lance stopped pacing right in front of his friend and leaned down to the level at which he was sitting, face so close to Hunk’s he could smell the cherries on his breath. “You know that storeroom off the corridor with one-eyed witch statue?”

The image of a mottled old woman with gnarled hands and one loose tooth flashed across Hunk’s memory. “The one behind the tapestry of Babayaga?”

“That’s it.”

He failed to see why this was relevant. “What about it?”

“Do you remember the weird cabinet in there that’s always jostling around and making spooky noises?”

“How could I forget?” Hunk whimpered, blanching. “It’s so creepy. I hate going in there because of that thing.”

The devious grin that Lance wore so well returned to his face and he straightened up. “I’m willing to bet you ten Galleons there’s a Boggart inside that cabinet.”

“Hang on. I’m not betting _anything_. I don’t want to do this!”

The problem with Lance wasn’t that he was clever. His plans were always bullet-ridden and he himself was so lazy and academically mediocre that the blueness of his robes was beyond reason. He had ambition that waxed green, recklessness waning red and a glowing yellow kindness. But he was also insane and that’s why he belonged in Ravenclaw.

“If you do this for me,” Lance said slowly, devilishly. “I’ll get my grandma to send you some of her special homemade toffee.”

_I take it back. He belongs in Slytherin._

“Deal,” Hunk said suddenly, internally cursing his traitorous tongue. He’d barely even had time to think about it. The promise of that sweet, sweet toffee was enough to tip all logic over the edge and into the fountain. “But tell her to chuck in some wholemeal scones as well.”

“Brilliant!” Lance exclaimed, his voice lilting with giddy excitement. He was definitely out of his bloody mind. “This is going to be so much fun!”

Hunk definitely didn’t see what Lance found so fun about facing a personification of his greatest fear but _screw it_ , he was getting toffee and scones out of it. Lance could traumatise himself silly.

“You’d better get the map out,” he said tiredly as he rose to his feet and swiping his hands against the bottom of his trousers to rid them of dirt. “I don’t want to run into any Astronomers. Speaking of which, why did you take it in the first place? Did you forget it was my turn to use it this week?”

“What are you talking about?” Lance’s voice warbled with uncertainty and his high forehead creased into a series of indented lines. “I didn’t take the map. It _is_ your turn to use it. See, I was wondering why _you_ didn’t come to the top of the Ravenclaw tower to collect me. I had to sneak all the way down here by myself!”

“I had to sneak here from the kitchens!” Hunk exclaimed. “Without the map! What do you mean you don’t have it!?”

“I don’t! Why would I?” The Ravenclaw’s blue eyes darkened whilst his voice rose in volume and pitch. “Don’t tell me you lost it. Do you know how much trouble I went through to get that thing from Filch?”

Hunk cringed and shoved his palm against Lance’s mouth. “Quiet! It wasn’t where you said you left it.”

Lance clamped his fingers around Hunk’s wrist and tried to yank his hand away. It didn’t work nearly as effectively as it should have, probably because Hunk was larger and stronger and Lance has noodles for forearms. Nonetheless, he was able to free his mouth just enough so he could force out a semi-coherent whisper.

“I–…Arty-ack –oom?”

“It wasn’t there,” Hunk said gravely, shaking his head. He was starting to sweat in spite of the cold. The moisture on his palm slickened his hand just enough so that it could slide away from Lance’s mouth and off his face. Nonetheless, he didn’t loosen his hold on Hunk’s wrist.

“Did you try using Accio?”

“Of course I did!”

“Did you look in the right book?”

“I flicked through every book in that awful room at least twice.”

“Shit,” Lance huffed. “Shit! No-one even uses the books in Artefact Room. Do they?”

Hunk could only shrug at him. “I don’t know, maybe? Someone might have picked it up.”

“Which means we’ve lost it.”

He sounded so melancholic that Hunk almost expected him to spread himself out across the wet flagstones face-down in some artistic rendering of what grief should look like. This was _Lance_ he was talking to so he wouldn’t have put it past him. But instead, he just dropped his hands to his sides and allowed his shoulders to melt until he was drooping over himself like a soggy ice-cream cone.

Hunk couldn’t really bring himself to be annoyed in the short-term. At least this mean they didn’t have to go and face a Boggart now, right? _Right?_ He could find time to be upset about it later but, for the moment, he was pretty content with this turn of events. Or would be once he’d planted himself safely back in his bed.

Lance suddenly tense and whipped his head around so he could stare at the shadows of the cloister.

“Someone’s coming,” he hissed.

He moved like lightning and, in a flash of white and pale blue, Hunk had been tugged downwards so harshly that he landed heavily on his backside around the other side of the fountain with the marble pressed up against his back.

“Ouch!”

“Shh!”

From where he was sat, Hunk was facing the archway perpendicular to the Entrance Hall’s great doors, staring across the Wooden Bridge. The dilapidated structure led away into total darkness. He didn’t even want to think about the steep drop into the ravine beneath its tattered floorboards – somehow it seemed worse when he couldn’t see anything.

For a few seconds, he just assumed that Lance was overreacting, as he was prone to. The other boy was sat next to him, unmoving, and he could see rigid goosebumps on his bare forearms and see in his scrunched-up face that he was afraid of being caught out of bed after curfew, but Hunk couldn’t hear anything unusual over the gurgle of the fountain.

Until… _footsteps._

They had the dry sound of someone on stone, someone who had not yet learned to walk quietly and instead relied on soft verges, like grass or sand to muffle their steps. Each footfall was chaotically spaced from the last. No rhythm at all. weren’t heavy and plodding like Hunk’s, nor were they self-assured and striding like Lance’s, who put his whole sole down when he walked, much like a child. They were much more cautious, much less confident.

They stopped somewhere on the other side of the fountain and Hunk felt Lance hold his breath.

_Please don’t be Filch, please don’t be Filch, please don’t be Filch, please don’t be Filch._

There was the rustle of parchment and a girlish voice spoke. “I know you’re there. There’s no point in hiding.”

Hunk and Lance exchanged a confused, albeit worried glance. That definitely wasn’t Filch. It didn’t sound like a teacher either. Whoever it was, she sounded young – a student? Hunk felt that she sounded familiar, though he couldn’t match a face to the voice at all. Her diction was proper and she sounded prim, what with her received pronunciation.

“Come on,” she groaned. “We don’t have all night.”

Lance was the first to move, drawing his wand and rising in one fluid motion that left Hunk reeling. _Idiot! She might have been bluffing!_ From his vantage point on the floor, he could only watch as the sternness from Lance’s face disappeared, replaced with surprise and scorn.

“Oh,” he muttered as he lowered his wand, eyebrow twitching. “It’s _you_.”

“Yes,” the voice replied curtly. “It’s me. Whoever you’re with can stand up too.”

Hunk sighed heavily but didn’t hesitate. He knew when the jig was up. At least Lance knew her – that might count for something. He was a bit clumsier than Lance when it came to getting onto his feet and had to use the fountain for support. He peered curiously across the courtyard at their provoker, illuminated just barely by moonlight. His jaw almost fell open.

“Pidge Gunderson?”

“Good thing you remembered his name because I completely forgot,” Lance exclaimed.

Hunk nudged him roughly. Pidge was staring right at him, eyes wide and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Between his hands, he held a partially-unfolded piece of parchment that looked as though it could engulf his entire body.

“Hunk! I know you!” he said. “I didn’t recognise your name on the map.”

“It’s a nickname, remember?”

That day in Diagon Alley seemed so far away but he was glad to see that nothing had changed between them, even if Pidge had, impossibly, been sorted into Slytherin. He was still little and polite with an awkward stance where his knees bent inwards. And he still had terrible, unruly hair that stuck up against the nape of his neck.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lance interjected, crossing the courtyard to where the first-year was standing and gesturing angrily to the parchment. “How did you get your hands on this?”

Pidge frowned at him. “I found it.”

“How did you get it to _work!?_ This is some serious magic! It took me ages to figure it out.”

A shrug. “Riddles.”

“Oh, fuck off, you little know-it-all –”

“ _Lance!_ ” Hunk hissed. “Language. He’s just a kid.”

“A kid who stole our map!”

“I didn’t steal it!” Pidge growled indignantly. “I _found_ it.”

“Whatever. Just give it back.”

“No!” The boy’s face rapidly drained of colour and he took a few hurried steps back, fixing Lance with the kind of wide doe-eyes prey might cast on an approaching predator.

“Stop it, Lance,” Hunk warned, his sympathies betraying him. The Ravenclaw hesitated.

“What’s your problem?” he asked reproachfully. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Pidge paused and visibly gulped. “Did you make it?” 

Where Lance remained silent, probably deciding whether or not he should lie to get what he wanted, Hunk answered truthfully. “No.”

“Then finders, keepers and losers, weepers.”

Lance groaned. “Ugh. That old chestnut. Why did you have to tell him, Hunk?”

He could only shrug. His friend probably wouldn’t understand Hunk’s ideas on the fairness of the situation. After all, they had stolen the map first from Filch. Why should they have the sole rights to its secrets?

Pidge’s wide eyes glanced between the two of them quickly. He was shaking and every time he exhaled there was hoarfrost on his lips. The warmth of the day was long gone, having leeched back into the land, and even though he wore a jumper, he still looked so small and cold.

“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. “It’s after curfew.”

“Duh,” Lance mumbled. He, too, was starting to look chilly if the redness of his nose was anything to go by. “We could ask you the same question.”

Pidge’s reply was too blunt to be dishonest. “I came looking for you.”

Hunk wouldn’t put it past a Slytherin to be a tattle-tale but it still didn’t add up. _That doesn’t make any sense!_

“Why?” he blurted out. “If you wanted to get us in trouble, you should have just gone to your Head of House. Now you’re out after curfew too and you’ll also be punished if we get caught.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Pidge said quickly. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. I meant I came looking for _him_. Lance McClain.”

 _What?_ Lance stared at him as though he’d just pulled a rhinoceros from his pocket. Hunk could just imagine the sparks in his brain, desperately trying to connect the dots and instead just causing a short circuit. He looked like a pop-eyed toy from one of those claw machines at the fun fayre. Perfectly funny and utterly confused.

“What!?” he choked. “Me? Why!? You don’t even know me!”

“You said you were the best duellist in the year.”

“Um…”

“Lance says a lot of things,” Hunk chuckled nervously. Pidge ignored him.

“I need you to teach me,” he said.

Amazement didn’t quite cover Hunk’s thought-process or Lance’s reaction. He felt and Lance looked like someone had just taken their spark of curious wonder and poured on kerosene. Every muscle of the Ravenclaw’s body froze like he was the subject of a still-life portrait before a grin crept onto his face. It stretched from one side to the other, showing every single tooth.

“You want me to teach you how to duel?” he asked breathlessly.

Pidge nodded and Hunk found himself at a complete loss on what to do.

“Why?” he asked. Lance titled his neck to glare at him questioningly but Hunk couldn’t find it in himself to be apologetic when this whole situation was just so _weird._ “You guys barely know each other.”

“We sat together for like half an hour on the Express,” Lance explained as though that fact alone suddenly solved everything.

“That doesn’t explain why he wants you to teach him how to duel!”

“I’m right here, you know,” Pidge said quietly. “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here.”

Hunk deflated. “Sorry. I just don’t understand what brought this on.”

“I need a teacher. That’s all. Are you going to help me or not?”

He seemed disgruntled, offended even, chin sticking forwards and upwards like he was sizing up the world and challenging himself to take it on.

“This is perfect, actually,” Lance announced. To Hunk’s horror, he had that Look on his face again. “We were just about to go and practise duelling ourselves.”

“You were?” Pidge asked, heightened pitch revealing his intrigue.

“No,” Hunk whispered because he knew exactly what Lance was planning and he didn’t like it one bit. He cleared his throat and said it again, this time louder. “No. We weren’t.”

“Hunk, please,” Lance huffed. “You were all for this earlier.”

“That was before it involved a first-year.”

“You heard him. He said he wants to learn how to duel and he wants _me_ to teach him.”

In all the mad congruity of life and school and learning, Hunk felt, at least, securely anchored to himself. Whatever the vacillations of other people, he thought himself terrifically constant. But now he felt like he was dragging a frayed line and that his anchor was gone because Lance seemed so stupidly disillusioned with himself that he was willing to lead a child to their worst fear and Hunk couldn’t take it.

“What is it?” Pidge asked, too innocent.

“We’re going to fight a Boggart,” Lance stated. He said it like it was no big deal and for the first time in his life, Hunk wanted to hit him. He didn’t, obviously, but he wanted to. “You know what that is?”

“Yes. I’m not stupid.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. You’re a Bathilda Bagshot fan.”

“I don’t want to fight a Boggart. I want to fight a _person_.”

“Why does anybody have to fight anything!?” Hunk seethed. “We could all just go back to bed and _not_ do this.”

“Well, tough,” Lance hissed, shooting Hunk the kind of glare that he’d _never_ been on the receiving end of before. He almost staggered backwards at its coldness. “I say we’re fighting a Boggart tonight. If you don’t like it, you can find another teacher.”

Pidge pursed his lips. He glowered. Then he sighed. “Alright. But I’m keeping hold of this map.”

“If you want to lead the way, that’s fine by me. Take us to the third floor near Classroom 3C.”

Hunk was tempted to just leave them there and then. It would have been so easy to slip away in the Entrance Hall, to take the stairwell down to the kitchens, grab another snack, curl up in the common room and pretend that tonight had never happened, forget everything to do with Lance’s crazy ideas and willingness to rope a first-year into their escapades.

But he couldn’t. He instead rushed to catch up to them at the foot of the moving staircases.

“ **Lumos** ,” Pidge whispered as they started their ascent into the gloom.

Hunk thought of all the things he could say to Lance to put him off. _This is a child. He’s a Muggle-born. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. You could get hurt. You could get in serious trouble. You could get kicked from the Quidditch team._

He could get kicked from the Quidditch team. Yeah, that would make him listen.

“Hunk,” Lance whispered. They had just reached the third floor and Lance walked ahead of him, long strides gradually increasing the distance between them. He was looking back over his shoulder with a cool expression, like cold water, smiling softly in the dim wandlight. “You alright, pal?”

“I…yes. Just nervous.”

“Don’t vomit, okay?”

Hunk kept his mouth shut and nodded.

It didn’t take long to find the storeroom – only a handful of turns to the right, a couple to the left, past the statue of hump-backed witch, whose single eye seemed to follow them down the corridor.

“That’s Gunhilda of Gorsemoor,” Pidge commented.

“If you tap her hump and incant Dissendium,” Lance explained quietly, “the statue moves and a secret passage leading to the basement of Honeydukes Sweetshop in Hogsmeade opens.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s on the map.”

He made to lean over the boy’s shoulder to point out where, but Pidge was too quick. He sidestepped around Lance and folded the map against his chest protectively, shielding its secrets from view. 

“Don’t look at it!” he squawked, eyes wide.

“Alright, alright! I wasn’t going to take it from you. Sheesh.”

Pidge was so weird _._ Weirder than he remembered from that time in Diagon Alley. Who goes out of their way to find someone they barely know and ask for duelling lessons?

“Guys, quiet!” Hunk chastised amidst the angry whispers of the various paintings lining the walls whose subjects had just been disturbed from their slumber.

“He started it!” Lance grumbled.

They didn’t have to walk much further before the three of them were stood in front of a large tapestry depicting a ferocious woman with a mess of long white hair and a bulbous nose whose tip drooped over her lips.

“Fie, fie!” she croaked. Even though she was just a picture, Hunk swore he could smell the sourness of her breath in the air. “The Russian scent was never heard of nor caught sight of here, but it has come by itself. Are you here of your own free will or by compulsion, my good youths?”

“What th–?” Pidge started. The rest of his sentence was muffled by Lance’s hand slapping over his mouth.

“Largely of our own free will and twice as much by compulsion!” he sang, as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Hunk knew that he had. “Do you know, Babayaga, where lies the thrice tenth kingdom?”

She regarded him with beady eyes the colour of swampwater. Then, she grunted and the tapestry began to roll itself up from the ground, revealing a stern wooden door etched into the stone wall behind it.

“This still seems like a bad idea,” Hunk mumbled. “Are you guys sure about this?”

Lance pressed his wand into the lock and cleared his throat. “ **Alohomora**.”

The storeroom’s walls were perfectly spherical and draped in gold-lined red curtains. As soon as they walked in, the tall floor-torches burst to life, glowing deep orange and red. Opposite their entrance-point, Hunk could see a small door peeking through the veil that he vaguely remembered led to a balcony. Though the entire room was chock-full of magical paraphernalia – cauldrons, chests, potions – everything seemed orderly, as though it had a place. Judging from the dust bunnies on the carpet, it didn’t look like anyone had been here for a while.

“I never knew Hogwarts had so many rooms,” Pidge commented. His eyes were bright, tinged with awe as he scoped their surroundings.

“It’s a pretty big castle,” Lance said, moving over to peer at a cage of Cornish pixies. They were sound asleep, probably drugged or Bewitched to keep them quiet. “The D.A.D.A. professors keep most of their junk in here.”

“Was that hag on the tapestry really Babayaga?”

“The one and only.”

“She’s on a Chocolate Frog Card! I haven’t collected her yet.”

Lance gestured to a collection of chests to his left. “One of those is filled to the brim with them. Take as many as you want. I used to sell them. People will pay a fortune because she’s so rare.”

“That’s genius,” Pidge snickered. He wasted no time in pilfering the trove for all it was worth. “What was that spell you used to unlock the door? Alo…alo…alohomora?”

“Aye, you got it. Fast learner. Hunk, help me find that cabinet.”

They already knew roughly where it was. It was hard to miss which Hunk thought was such a shame. He had been hoping that maybe they’d moved it somewhere else over the holidays but nope – there it was, stood ominous and tall and covered in a white sheet. Hunk could feel the sweat drench his skin as he stared at it, the throbbing of his own eyes, the ringing vibrating in his ears, the thump of his heart against his ribcage.

“Lance,” he rasped, watching nervously as his friend’s fingers closed over the cover. “I really, _really_ don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Relax,” Lance huffed impatiently. The sheet tumbled down with one sharp tug – it barely even touched the floor before the cabinet actually jumped, its lock rattling with the nonverbal cry of _let me out, let me out, let me out_. “Woah. This thing is really agitated. It can probably sense how much of a scaredy-cat you are.”

“Okay, no,” Hunk squeaked. “I don’t want to do this.”

Lance glared at him. “What?”

“I don’t want to do this.”

It was true. He really didn’t want to do this at all. He never had. Lance’s stupid whims had just won over yet _again_ and even though he’d come far enough to face the monstrosity, his nerves still cowered. The sheer fear was like a knife in Hunk’s gut, slowly twisting and plunging deeper until he felt like he was going to be sick. He wasn’t cut out for this.

“Come on,” Lance hissed. “With Boggarts, the only thing to fear is fear itself.”

Hunk knew that wasn’t true. Many things were worse than fear. Those words were just a warning that fear could change who he was inside, make him compromise where he should stand firm.

He took a deep breath. _Inhale. Exhale._ He could practically feel the oxygen flooding in and out of his lungs. God, he was definitely going to vomit.

“No,” he repeated. “I’m not doing it. I’m not fighting that _thing_.”

Lance closed his eyes. Hunk could see his nostrils flaring. When he spoke again, his voice was ice-cold.

“Fine. No-one’s forcing you to stay. You can run on back to bed if you really want to. I don’t need your help.”

There was this paralyzing hurt that spread through his body like liquid metal. Hunk clenched his fists tight, balled up to chest like a protective shield. His feet trembled and his legs twitched. _No-one’s forcing me to stay._ The impulse to whirl around and sprint away, out of the firelight and away from the fear was so compelling but he couldn’t understand why now it was difficult to _move_.

“Fine,” he replied shakily. There must’ve been something about his hesitation that put Lance off because his forehead was crumpling and his eyes were open again and he looked sad in a way that was very un-Lance-like. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go.”

The last thing he heard before exiting the room was Pidge reciting the description of his newly-found Chocolate Frog card.

“Babayaga. Medieval, dates unknown. Russian hag who dwelled in a hut that stood on giant chicken legs. Ate children for breakfast – and presumably for lunch and tea. Yuck!”

 Hunk couldn’t even shut the door properly on his way out. His hands were shaking too much and it felt too final to close them in there like that. Instead, he left it ajar, at least so the firelight could illuminate his surroundings for a bit whilst he caught his breath. He waited for a few minutes, arms folded and elbows nestled into his palms. Maybe Lance would come outside? Maybe he would apologise and they’d all go to bed?

_He doesn’t need my help._

Hunk started to walk.

 _What a mess. What a stupid mess, Lance. Why do you always do this?_ Somehow, even though he was upset and angry, it felt worse being in the darkness alone. He’d seen this kind before, the kind that made his street like an old-fashioned photograph, everything a shade of grey. This wasn’t like that.

This was darkness that robbed him of his best sense and replaced it with unease. In this darkness, Hunk stood, muscles cramped and hard to move. He only knew his eyes were still there because he could feel them blink, moisturising muscles he had no current use for. He couldn’t hear much either – maybe the odd snore from the paintings. That should have brought his heart rate down below the level of rabbit-in-a-snare, but it didn’t.

He didn’t want to draw his wand. He knew it was there, in the pocket of his jacket, and he that just casting a bit of light _might_ help. But he didn’t have to map. There was no telling who was at the other end of the corridor, who would see the glow in the darkness. _I’d better not._

Wow, it sure was lonely walking the castle alone.

Hunk was picked his way along the wall, trying to feel his way back to the main staircase. His hands brushed over the borders of a few paintings but thankfully no-one stirred or berated him. He was panicking a little, realising he was lost without a light. He couldn’t remember where the next corner was.

He could hear footsteps. _Quiznack._

The soft crunch of carpet beneath rapid feet, approaching too quick for Hunk to move out of the way. Someone small and fast collided with his hip and went sprawling on the floor and he yelped.

“Aah! You rascal!” the nearest painting bellowed. “Don’t you know what time it is? You disturbed my beauty sleep!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

Somewhere in between apologising and stepping backwards, Hunk tripped over whoever or whatever he had knocked over and tumbled onto his backside. The thing-slash-person did well to cushion his fall, but there were more than a couple of swearwords.

“Git aff me!”

_A Scottish accent? But that doesn’t sound like Lance…_

“Sorry!” Hunk squeaked.

“Urgh! **Lumos**!”

There was a burst of whiteness that made Hunk wince. Beyond the tip of a wand pointing at his nose, he saw red robes, long, black hair and a furiously pinched face.

“Keith!?” he choked.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he muttered, wriggling out from underneath Hunk’s body.

“What are you doing out of bed!?”

Keith didn’t respond. He was kneeling now, dusting off the front of his jumper in the kind of frantic, half-crazed manner of a lunatic. Hunk wondered if there was actually some semblance to Lance’s claims that he was insane. His eyes were wide, dark and terrifying, overshadowed by thick lashes and even thicker eyebrows. Before Hunk could even rise to his feet, Keith lunged forwards and grabbed his shoulders.

“Where is he?” he asked, voice taut like a metal wire rearing to snap.

“What?” Hunk mouthed, dumbfounded.

“I _saw_ him. He’s in the castle. Where is he?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

“Matthew Holt!”

The very air prickled at his name. All the warmth drained from Hunk’s body. He shivered in spite of his jacket. 

And then there was this scream – this horrible, human scream – piercing the air from somewhere near yet faraway. It tore through Hunk like a shard of glass. He felt his eyes widen and pulse quicken, heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box and when he looked at Keith again, he had gone pale.

“Pidge,” Hunk whispered.

Before he was even aware of making a conscious decision, he was on his feet and his legs were pounding furiously, ears straining for more sounds, more clues as to where to turn, where it had come from. Keith ran with him, but faster, sometimes stumbling where he took a wrong turn and Hunk had to correct him. His brain was chaotic, a mess of questions and worry, pounding the same name over and over and over.

_Matthew Holt, Matthew Holt, Matthew Holt. He’s in the castle._

Babayaga’s tapestry was back in place and in Keith’s wandlight, Hunk could see the terror in her swamp-eyes, her open-mouthed fear. The thick fabric and the wall just about muffled the wails from within the storeroom. It almost looked like Babayaga herself were making the sounds.

“What is this?” Keith snorted. “Why have you brought me here?”

“There’s a room behind her,” Hunk explained between each lungful of air, “There are two people inside.”

“Is Holt in there too?”

“I don’t know!”

Keith grunted, grabbing at the tapestry’s corner. As much as he pulled, it wouldn’t budge.

“What is this!?” he snarled.

“You youths don’t want to go in there,” Babayaga gurgled, accent thick with dismay. “There’s evil within.”

“Move out of the way!”

“You won’t move her like that,” Hunk explained hurriedly. “We need to answer her riddle.”

“I don’t have time for this!”

Desperation led Hunk to approach. He placed a hand over Keith’s forearm and gently pulled his hands away.

“Babayaga, _please_ ,” he begged.

“Young master,” she wheezed. “The evil within seeks to devour you. My door remains hidden ‘til it departs.”

“My friends are in there. I have to help them.”

Half-hidden behind the white veil of her hair, the hag sniffled. Hunk had never had a reason for courage before. He could feel guilt, hot seeping through his veins. If he’d never left, they wouldn’t be trapped outside. And if Matthew Holt were inside…there was no telling what he’d do. Fire in the form of water burned the backs of his eyes.

Babayaga opened her mouth and the stench of rotten meat permeated the air. Her voice, when she spoke, shook with every syllable and the tapestry quivered.

“Fie…fie…” she muttered, low and scared. “The Russian smell was never heard of nor c-c-c-caught sight of here, but it has come by itself. Are you here of your own free will or by compulsion, my good youths?”

“Largely of compulsion, and twice as much by my own free will.”

The tapestry retreated to the ceiling. The door behind was still ajar, shifting and creaking on its hinges. The sound brought a chill to Hunk’s spine. It sounded like some dying animal, crying out its pain and sorrow with its dying breath. Though he was loath to enter, Keith’s rashness preceded him – as soon as it had been revealed, he rushed it with all the recklessness of a Gryffindor.

Inside was what Hunk imagined Hell to be like.

The light from the floor-torches was no longer warm and welcoming. They glowed purple like a midnight storm and cast long, impenetrable shadows. The air was thick and toxic and Hunk imagined the walls swelling with the urge to combust and release all the trapped chemicals. Though it was dark, he could see the cabinet with its door open, and Lance standing by, face pale and shocked and unmoving. Pidge cowered against the curtains, shrinking away from the approaching nightmare.

A young man with dirty blond hair that scraped the nape of his neck, pale, speckled skin and sickening honey eyes limped towards him as though wounded, hand outstretched. His fingernails were overgrown and caked in dirt, and he bled ink from a mottled and infected Dark Mark.

“But Pidge,” Matthew Holt croaked with a lopsided smile. “It’s all true.”

Pidge screamed again, raw and plaintive, tears dripping from his bottom eyelashes.

Out of everyone, Keith was the first to move. Hunk had never seen anything so fast before in his life. In an instant, he had positioned Pidge behind him and fallen into a perfect duelling stance, one foot forward and wand raised.

Whatever spell he was going to cast, he never got the chance. There was the sound of a whip cracking and Matthew Holt spontaneously burst into flames.

Hunk shielded his face lest the fire singe his eyebrows and peeked through the gaps in his fingers at what had to be the most horrendous sight in the modern world. A Death Eater emerged from the inferno dressed entirely in black. His mask, complete with serpentine designs, shone bright silver and smoke billowed from the grate of his mouth. Keith slowly lowered his wand as though he were entranced, lips parting in a down-turned oval.

“No,” he whimpered. “Please. No.”

“It’s not real!” Lance yelled. “It’s just a Boggart! Cast Riddikulus!”

“Filthy half-blood,” the Death Eater droned. “You should never have been born.”

“For fuck’s sake, Keith! **Riddikulus**!”

Lance leapt out from the side of the cabinet, face grim and determined. The Death Eater whirled towards him and, in another crack, it morphed into something new. Some kind of solider wearing a muted khaki uniform with a hat pointed his rifle straight at Lance’s forehead and his determination buckled, replaced with the fear of a boy who knows he’s about to die.

“Par – e – dón,” the solider chanted softly, his mantra slowly but surely rising in volume. “Par – e – dón. Par – e – dón.” His index finger brushed over the trigger. Keith and Pidge were motionless.

“Lance!” Hunk shrieked.

Lance’s eyes hardened and he incanted, “ **Riddikulus**!”

Another crack and the soldier’s uniform had been replaced with a sheath-tight red dress. His lips were coated in lipstick and his eyes were decorated with eyeshadow. His hat tumbled into a wig of lusciously curled hair. He looked like Gloria Estefan reborn.

The torch-light flicked from purple to orange and Lance’s barking laughter, forced and deranged, filled the room. Though his melodrama was transparent, complete with a pointing finger and a hand on his stomach, the Boggart wavered, wailing to itself and pulling at the hem of its skirts in poorly-concealed embarrassment. It tottered on ridiculously tall stilettos back towards its cabinet, chased by Lance’s chuckling, and locked the door on itself.

All that remained of their terror was that laughter and Pidge’s sobs.

“What,” Keith seethed, “the _fuck_ was that?”

“A Boggart,” Hunk whispered, still in disbelief at what he’d just witnessed.

Keith threw his hands in the air. “Why are you guys screwing around with a Boggart!?”

Lance was still laughing. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Hunk said.

Keith advanced on the hysterical Ravenclaw and shook him violently by his shoulders. “Stop it! What’s wrong with you!?”

“What’s wrong with _me?_ ” Lance gasped breathlessly. “What’s wrong with _you!?_ A Death Eater!? Seriously?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Hunk walked tentatively to where Pidge had been left, alone, clutching at the curtains for support. He was still crying, moaning into his fingers.

“Hey,” Hunk soothed. “It’s okay. It’s all over now. That thing’s gone.”

He wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulled him close, gently rubbing his arm. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, Hunk revelled at the way Pidge sunk into the warmth of his side, much like his siblings would do when they were frightened of the dark. Over the waning sounds of his whimpering, Keith and Lance bickered, accents clashing like swords.

“We had everything under control until you showed up!” Lance screeched.

A scoff. “Oh, _aye_ , sure looked like it when I walked in and saw Gunderson cornered by a feckin’ criminal!”

“He had it under control! You just made everything worse, as usual.”

“At least I did something!”

“That’s feckin’ _rich_. Ye didne dae shit! Ye jist stood there an’ snivelled like a baby. Don’t ye know a Boggart when ye see one?”

“Hoo was I supposed tae ken it was a Boggart!? And ye jist started  _laughing_ , ye feckin' madman."

"Ye're  _supposed_ to laugh at a Boggart, ye dobber!  Whit are ye e’en daein’ here?”

“I could ask ye th’ same thing.”

“I speart first!”

“Fine! I had Astronomy!”

“That doesnae answer my question! Why did ye come _here!?_ ”

“I ran into him in the corridor, Lance,” Hunk blurted out. He had slipped Pidge’s hand into his and tugged him close, thankful that the boy had calmed down enough to stop sobbing. “Will you two _please_ stop fighting?”

They were stood nose to nose, fingers clenched at each other’s collars. For a second, Hunk thought by the rage in their eyes that they were going to turn on him. But they registered Pidge, small and shaking, and took a step away, loosening their grips.

“Are you alright, Gunderson?” Keith asked. His hand reached forward to rest on Pidge’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.”

Keith recoiled.

“Aye, Kogane, don’t you lay a finger on him,” Lance growled, manoeuvring himself so he stood between them.

“Get away from me!” Pidge suddenly spat, tightening his grip on Hunk’s hand. “I don’t want either of you near me!”

Lance’s face contorted into an expression of pure shock. “What?”

“This is all your fault!”

Fat, hurt tears rolled down the Slytherin’s cheeks and dripped down from the rounded point of his chin, wetting the front of his jumper.

“Pidge,” Hunk murmured, voice low. “Are you okay?”

“ _No_ ,” he choked. “No, I’m not. I’m tired and scared and I want to go to bed.”

“Yeah, of course.” Hunk turned his attention to Keith and Lance, both stood awkwardly and looking like they didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. He couldn’t not be angry with them, especially Lance, even though the way he looked right now was so guilty and utterly miserable. Exasperation burned him to his core and he heaved a sigh. “I’m taking Pidge back to his common room. You guys…just…try not to get in any more tonight. Please?”

They both nodded.

Later, they parted ways at the main staircase. Keith and Lance went up whilst Hunk and Pidge went down. In the lonely quiet of the stairwell, the fear thoughts looped around in Hunk’s mind until there was no room for anything else.

_Matthew Holt. Death Eater. Peradón. Matthew Holt. Death Eater. Peradón. Matthew Holt. Death Eater. Peradón._

_Matthew Holt. Matthew Holt. Matthew Holt._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Even though the first episode of Season Seven revealed that Lance was a tiny peanut before his growth spurt, I'm still standing by my lanky thirteen-year-old Lance :')


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